


Sturm und Drang - A Pokemon BlazeBlack Nuzlocke

by cross_off



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Black & White | Pokemon Black and White Versions
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Noir, Gen, Nuzlocke Challenge, Organized Crime, Sad with a Happy Ending (Hopefully), Storylocke, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2019-10-24 07:35:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 55,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17700281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cross_off/pseuds/cross_off
Summary: Adaptation of a Nuzlocke of Pokemon BlazeBlack (that I'm still playing through), where Pokemon abilities are anthropomorphised as magic - high fantasy meets noir basically.  Set in what I imagine Roaring Twenties Unova would look like.  Albert Thawne navigates the magically empowered criminal underworld while searching for an artifact of the forgotten past, seeking a way to free himself of the ghosts and strings that bind him.





	1. Chapter 1

_My mother once told me that within every outlandish tale lies a grain of truth._

_Unova was - still is - a land of tales. This judgement can be passed on any place where stories are told, in whatever context, but it is more true of Unova than other places. While other regions tell of histories, of landmarks, of social progress, Unova's tales come from a more distant past, one that now seems almost ethereal. Because while the ordinary and everyday can be recorded and passed down and taken for fact, something as intangible as magic will always be thought of as just a fairytale. And Unova's tales tell of magic._

_Few have attempted real explanations of it, because it seemed to defy explanation in itself. All that is remembered is that it was a mystical force that empowered a chosen handful, rendering them capable of feats beyond comprehension. The magic took and warped all that existed, and the legends say that it brought many wonders into the world, wonders that have since been lost to time._

_Some of those blessed with magic grew into specimens of humanity at its peak, who could lift boulders and sprint across great distances, their strength, speed and senses enhanced to their maximum. What they gained in body others gained in mind, their focus sharpened to move objects, manipulate energy, and touch other minds, their powers unfettered by neither size nor distance. Some were physically warped by the energies that they channeled, until they bore the multifaceted eyes and wings of insects, the hard-angled faces and scales of the Draconids, or the ethereal beauty of immortal Faeries. And some became attuned to the elements and could bend them to their will - could summon a wildfire, a hurricane or an earthquake with barely a snap of their fingers. Theirs was the most mystical and destructive power of all._

_And above them all was a single perfect being, believed to be almost an avatar, not born, but brought into creation by the magic itself, binding together the nobility and fierceness of the dragon spirit and the raw power of the elemental magics in a single vessel. A being that united the warring tribes and brought peace and unity to Unova, a being which ruled over a Golden Age which should have lasted forever._

_Except it didn't - because from there, the legends and tales become murkier, darker, more violent. Princes quarreled over their titles and territories, old tensions were left unsolved to simmer and flare, and even the perfect dragon was sundered by the chaos that ensued, torn into fragments that were only left with partial mastery of their predecessor's powers. Rather than try to heal what had been broken, these fragments turned to the process of breaking down what their progenitor had once built, waging bitter wars against each other, until the Golden Age was but a distant memory, and magic itself had disappeared from the world._

_No-one seems to think about why the legends focus so much on the Golden Age, or why they ignore what happened afterward. But I always thought that it was simple psychology - we think of what we once had, what elevated us, and not how, in the end, our gifts ultimately failed to repress our worse instincts. How mundane human nature won out against the magic, and reduced it to a fairytale, something unbelievable, but an uplifting contrast to the bitter world we were left with._

_Or maybe it was never even that magical after all. Maybe it was just a stroke of cosmic luck, the byproduct of advanced science now lost, or even a chance genetic quirk. We didn't know what it was - how could we know, so long after the event? - and so we wrapped it in myth, glamorising it, and forgetting how it hadn't been lost, but squandered. Those that received it, rather than appreciate their fortune, turned it against each other, squabbling with each other in futile quests for domination, until they'd killed each other off, leaving nothing but fragments of memory. If it had been a genetic quirk, it had been lost for a good reason - it was beneficial in the short-term, but ultimately self-destructive, and its hosts hadn't survived long enough to pass it on._

_Magic was only the symptom of a deeper problem, though, and its loss left this problem to fester, but ultimately move forwards in different directions. Even without magic, humans were perfectly capable of punishing and subjugating each other, even killing each other on occasion. Over the centuries humanity changed, grew smarter and more sophisticated, but at heart we remained the same violent creatures. In the absence of magic, we turned to science, delving deeper into the fundamental forces of the universe, until we had the power to light city blocks, communicate across vast distances almost instantaneously, and forge metal rods that spat fire and death at our enemies. We fashioned new wonders and horrors of our own, fitted to the modern world we lived in._

_And that was all well, because for the longest time there had been no magic in this world, and if it had ever been there to begin with, it was gone, and as far as anyone knew, it would never come back._

_Maybe it was like a candle, flickering and guttering into embers, and where others saw death and decay, it was merely dormant, waiting to burst into flame once more. Maybe it'd just found a nice tree, lain down, and taken a nap, undisturbed by the world passing it by. It didn't really matter. Once magic existed, and it had faded and lessened until we all thought of magic as just a story, one that could inspire, dazzle and frighten, but still only a story. It was a figment of our collective imagination, and none of us gave thought to what would happen if it had been real the whole time._

_Well, it turns out we were all wrong. The stories may have been fantasy, the nobility and high-mindedness parts were all made up, but the seemingly divine powers? Those were still real, and just as violently lethal as they'd been described._

_And of course, when magic did return to this world, none of us were ready for it - neither the magic itself, nor the upheaval it would bring, as the fairytales faded away and the world was forced to adjust to the reality of a world where some had powers and others didn't, where life had just received additional dashes of volatility and fragility that it really hadn't needed. The cruel, violent reality of a world with magic._

_But I survived anyways. In Striaton before the Awakening, survival was a battle in itself, and you had to be hard and cold if you wanted to keep your corpse from being chucked into the West Sector Canal. Even in the traumatic weeks after the magic began to manifest, I kept my head down, stuck to my routines, and by the end of it I was still on the right side of the dirt. And soon enough, I found my place in this new world._

_I'm not a hero, or a wizard, or a god. I'm still the same as I've always been, magic or no magic. I've been luckier than most, true, but that doesn't mean I haven't fought for what I have, or that I haven't earned it. Whether it's fair or not doesn't matter. Survival has no rules, no fairness - it just is, and anyone else would tell you the same. And nothing else matters so long as you're still alive._

_My mother always told me that each outlandish tale holds a grain of truth. I guess that it's the same for people - each person is guided and animated by something inside of them, a spark of truth, a common thread that stays stable throughout a person's life, while the world changes around them. But if life is anything like those old stories, it seems like the only thing that matters is what you can do with that spark. That's the only reality of this world - intent is nothing, the end result is all._

_As for me? I'm just a survivor, and one who's found himself a niche for survivors. My gift may not be as powerful or as well honed as some, but it's served me well, and it's helped me find and secure my position, giving a spot of stability in the world's anarchy. Though it's taken me to some dangerous places, and it feels more like a curse than a gift, I owe my survival and my current place to the magic, more than anything else. I may not love it, but for the first time in my life, I can feel secure in a way I've never felt before._

_I just hope I can keep it that way._


	2. Chapter 2

The key felt warm in my pocket.

My hand dropped, and I thumbed the metal strip out, raising it to eye-level so I could examine it better. Even in the dim light of the streetlamp, I could see no blemishes on the metal, no nicks or notches to indicate shoddy workmanship or regular wear and tear. Absurdly, I found myself thinking of my old key, a near look-alike to its predecessor except for a long groove running along its side, the result of a scrape with an earth mage.

Several days ago, I'd been caught up in a scuffle on Hyde Street, and caught a punch to my midsection. The key, nestling in my coat that time, had snapped under the force of the blow, its shards driven into my ribcage like daggers. It had taken about an hour for Tom to fish the metal fragments out of my chest, and for Claire's power to mend the tears they'd left, leaving me fit to go out again. The key took a day or so longer to be replaced, and now the replacement looked all too bright and all too artificial in its pristine newness.

And though it had been a few hours since I'd picked it up from the quartermaster, it was still warm. Eerily so.

As I looked more closely at it, thinking about that last bit, I could finally pick out the missing detail that had thus eluded me. Now I could see that the key was a smidge brighter than the light illuminating it, discern that faint hint of blue in the air around it. Definitely magic - the steelthreaders had thrown in a little something extra for me, assuming that this wasn't to become standard issue for all safehouse keys.

It would be an upgrade, I supposed. Probably wouldn't break like the last one, and it might have some other functionalities beyond simple luminosity, something I could find useful. Still, it unsettled me, to see that the same magic that coursed through my bloodstream could be transferred to something as pedestrian as the key in my hand.

Well, it was what it was, and there was no point dwelling on it, nor idling out in the cold longer than necessary. The key slipped down into my fingers, and I pressed it gingerly into the lock. Whatever magic it had evidently didn't extend to silencing the groan of the wood frame, nor easing its reaction to the sudden weight on the door's hinges. I stepped quickly through the doorway, my hand already moving to shut the door behind me.

I took the stairs at a jog, occasionally jumping a step or two as I made my way up past the familiar scenery of faded wallpaper and grimy windows. I reached the third floor landing, and without slowing down, I turned left into the narrow corridor.

The bulb had been fused for about a week, but I didn't need it - I knew by heart how many steps lay between the landing and room 3G. The key slipped back out of my pocket and into the keyhole with a dull shink. I twisted, leaning into the motion, and the door swung backwards.

I inhaled as I stepped inside, breathing in that lingering hint of lavender. Jes had last been here two weeks ago, and yet, the smell remained, a remnant of the candle she'd brought that night. The stuffy, secluded air of the apartment had preserved it for all this time.

I thought back to the candle's glow, to the two of us leaning over the small table, elbows almost touching, as we discussed news from Dagger Lane and laughed at her corny jokes. Thinking of the memory brought a strange lightness to my heart, and I felt the corners of my mouth twist upwards, involuntarily. I didn't mind the feeling. It was a nice reminder, a touch that made my room a little less drab and gloomy - a spot of light in the gathering darkness. I didn't want it, didn't need it, definitely didn't deserve it, but it was still nice to have.

The table we'�d sat at still lounged against the far wall, a battered typewriter resting close to its edge. I hadn't written a report for at least two weeks, but the typewriter still managed to look more worn, its keys more faded and its paint more dull and chipped every time I saw it. That table, the two wooden chairs, and the small cot in the far corner were all the concessions made to the people who rotated through the apartment...not that anyone who spent the night here was looking for comfort or luxury. I smirked slightly at the thought, then bent down, grabbing one of the chairs and dragging it over to the only thing of value in the apartment.

As far as windows went, it wasn't particularly fancy - a simple glass frame, bisected by a cast iron cross into four small squares. Beneath the latter two squares was an unimpeded view of Striaton Garden, and the edge of the Market District, where the Crooked Dice's territory met the Disputed Zone. The green ran into the cobbled stones not too far from the apartment, but the treeline didn't begin until about 10 feet away from the edge of the Gardens, and my elevation allowed me to see a decent way into the Garden itself, even at night.

There was a reason that every patrol team had one person covering the window, keeping a birds-eye view over their perimeter. It was the same reason that I was here to begin with.

The Bookkeeper had established the pattern earlier than any of the other gangs, and even when they'd started copying him, they'd never managed it to the same efficiency that we had. It was simple in concept - every vulnerable three-block strip was covered by a 5-man team of magicians, 4 of them circling the perimeter on the ground, a fifth in an elevated apartment, to spot potential incursions and reinforce the team on the ground if necessary.

However monotonous the job could be, it was important. The Crooked Dice had made their rise by being thorough and ensuring that they had a clear field to operate within, expanding that field whenever opportunities arose. An incursion by another major gang, or any unaffiliated magicians setting up shop could threaten the tenuous structure we'd assembled out of the ruins of the world before, and destroy our livelihoods in the bargain. Here at the window, I was only a small cog in a complex machine, but one where every cog was equally important to the machine's work.

Night had fallen. The moon drifted through the sky to my right, a pale half-circle in a sea of deep purple. A few blood-red strands snaked across the sky to my west, framing the dark waters of Accumula Sound in the distance. And though I knew from experience that the city behind us was as vibrant as ever, only a few scattered lights shone out from the western suburbs, seeming oddly muted. I settled in to my chair, my eyes alert.

It was funny how the hours could slip by, sometimes. Once darkness had expunged the last shreds of daylight, it was impossible to measure time without my pocket watch (which I never really bothered to check). After twilight had faded, the view from the window became almost surreal, a scene of distorted shadows and indistinct shapes, occasionally broken by pale glimmers of light. Some came from streetlights, others came from the stars, but both seemed equally bright and remote from above. It felt oddly lonely up here, alone in the shadowed apartment, with only the occasional dark thought to keep me company.

A trail of yellow scorched its way into the sky, disappearing as quickly as it came. I got to my feet, my eyes following the streak of fire. It came from inside the Disputed Zone, which at this time of night would mean-

My coat was on in half a second, and I raced for the door, slamming it shut behind me and jamming my key back in the lock. Once I heard it click, I shot towards the stairs, and descended as quickly as I could, dropping over three or four stairs at a time. I paid the cold air no mind as I emerged from the building, my eyes fixed on the fresh flame trail in the distance. This one was closer to the Gardens, and much closer to our territory. That was worrisome. Still...

Fire magic was one of the more common powers, and yet to the vast majority of people, it was the most highly-rated. For the life of me, I couldn't work out why - however flashy a fireball looked as it arced through the air, it was slower than a bullet and didn't put its targets down, so most of the time you'd have been better off with a gun. While more powerful mages could unleash concentrated streams of fire on their opponents or strike at their surroundings, they lacked the raw power to overwhelm single opponents or burn through brick and mortar, rendering them handicapped in close quarters fighting. And all of that was before getting to the various ways of working around a fire elemental�'s power - shields of earth or mental energy, shrouds of darkness that dispelled heat, the natural resistance that enhanced and the Draconids had to fire, and a fast opponent could simply dodge the fireballs. Can't beat what you can't hit, after all.

This shouldn't be too hard, I thought for half a second, before I cursed myself for the thought. No point underestimating what I'd be facing before I'd had the chance to size it up.

Another short burst of fire jetted from an alleyway a few feet away from me. The fight was probably still going then...no matter. Consciously, I slowed down my pace, walking the last few steps and turning myself sideways to survey the scene.

The alley was emptier than I'd expected. There were no shouting figures here, locked in desperate combat as magical energy whizzed and cut across the tight space. Instead, a greasy-haired man a few years older than me stood over a scrawny redhead, gun cocked and aimed at his head.

A stray burst of fire shot from the kid's hand, leaving traces of ash along the brick wall behind him. His assailant chuckled. How he had managed to chase down and overpower a fire elemental I didn't know, but that wasn't the point.

"Excuse me," I said, my voice just loud enough for them to hear it. "I don't think you're licensed to work around here."

"Who're you?" he spat, turning upwards to face me. His face was dotted with pockmarks, and his hooked nose gave him a sinister air. Still, he wasn't too big, and he was alone.

My tattoo was covered by my sleeve, but my pendant hung outside my shirt, two dice tied to my neck like a chain, that signified my allegiance to the gang. It was clearly visible, so he must have been new around here if he didn't recognise it. Good - his gun suggested that his magic wasn't all that much to rely on, and he wasn't carrying anything that would mark him as a member of another gang. A neophyte and a bully, with no-one to back him up and no-one who'd miss him.

"Like I said," I said, low, letting an edge creep into my voice. "You're not licensed to work around here. Pocket that gun, walk away, and I'll forget I saw you around here."

"You'll forget? You won't be remembering anything with two bullets in yer skull," he sneered, swinging his gun in a wide arc. He took a second too long to center his aim on me and start pulling the trigger, and he shot one-handed at me, bullets flying indiscriminately from the barrel.

My hand curled, and a thin trail of water leaked from the vials in my coat pocket, spooling into a circular barrier between the two of us. The first bullet missed my shield entirely and passed about a foot to my left, the second ricocheted off the edge into the wall, the third and fourth were bounced upwards, shooting off into the sky. The disc of water thrummed with a deep, menacing note as it absorbed the impacts, and once the sound faded, its outer surface was as smooth as ever.

Even if I hadn't used my power, all four bullets would have probably missed me anyways. It was a sorry display - even though an expert triggerman wouldn't have been able to get past the shield, they would have made a much better attempt at it. Hell, they might have gotten a shot off before my shield was up, and that could have been all they needed.

I cut that line of thinking off quickly. He'd missed his chance, no point worrying about it. Now it was my turn.

I breathed out, and the shield vibrated, condensing itself into a bite-sized sphere. It floated lazily down the alley, spinning slightly on its axis, reflections of the streetlight glittering deep in its core, twisting, merging and breaking apart. Despite the amorphous quality, the orb was compact, and it managed to be imposing anyways with its bobbing progression, as if utterly undaunted by any action this punk might make.

For a second the thug wavered, indecisive, a spark of fear in his eyes. Then, as the sphere flitted a little closer, he feinted to one side, before throwing himself upwards into a massive, all-or-nothing leap. Evidently he hoped to clear the alley, dodge the sphere of water and take me out before I could retaliate.

He'd chosen the easiest path of assault, and the most predictable. I rolled my eyes, and a flick of my fingers sent the sphere accelerating upwards, slamming into his midsection with a heavy thwump. He fell backwards, and crumpled to the ground like a deflated balloon, all the bravado from before gone. It wouldn't kill him - judging by the speed at which he'd moved, his magic went towards physical augmentation, and I hadn't hit him hard enough to kill even an ordinary human - but that didn't mean I'd held back. He'd be feeling that blow in the morning.

I walked slowly down the alley, letting the sphere spin on its axis in midair, feigning disinterest in the prone punk. Let him think that he wasn't worth my attention, that my seemingly effortless victory was just a pedestrian affair to me. He'd remember this all the better if I did.

And that was the Bookkeeper's plan, anyways. He told us that by making an example of the few who dared come for us, we could frighten the rest into submission, make the other gangs too afraid to come after the Boardwalk or Dagger Lane. But to do that, we needed examples. And here was one who'd delivered himself up on a platter.

"I warned you," I told him, quietly. "But you didn't listen. People like you never listen."

"Why...should I listen...to-" and then I kicked him in the chest. Hard. Whatever insult he'd been about to fling at me was swallowed by a sudden coughing fit, not that I'd been interested in hearing it.

"Well, you're listening now, aren't you?" I let the easy smile fall, and then spoke, my voice calm and even. "Here are your terms. If you're seen at the Boardwalk, near the Park, poking around the Dreamyard, or anywhere in East Striaton, really, your life is forfeit. The Crooked Dice will come after you, and we won't be holding back until you're out of the picture. Are we clear?"

He didn't answer. I sighed, and a droplet sloughed off the sphere, landing on his cheek. A beat passed, and a swirl of scarlet blossomed within the wet patch. His face contorted in pain, but the drop stayed where it was, held in place by my focus and willpower. Beneath the drop, through the shadows and cloudy red, a tiny, fresh puncture wound was visible - a little water pressure was just the tool to hit the message home.

"Are we clear?" I asked, once more.

He nodded, then nodded again, almost defying gravity with how his head frantically bounced off the ground. Another example had been made.

"Get out of my sight," I muttered, as I turned away. I half expected him to make a stab at my back, had the sphere reformed and spinning above my hand within a second, but the attack never came. Instead I heard the steady thrum of retreating footsteps behind me, growing fainter with every impact.

"Is he gone?" asked the redhead. I'd almost forgotten about him.

He had his arms wrapped around himself as he stood up, and he looked warily at me, still slightly crouched, looking smaller than he actually was. Funny - in my experience fire elementals tended to be overconfident, flashy, constantly acting bigger than they really were. Guess there were always outliers.

"He's gone," I told him, trying to be reassuring. "I'll put his name and description in the book for good measure. If he comes back to this neighborhood, then the first member of the Dice to spot him will go after him and take him out for good. Might even be me that does it. Doesn't really matter - its the principle, we can't have others working here, muddying the waters. Anyways, if he's smart, he'll drop the extortion and bullying act and find a job more suited to his talents."

"Will he?"

"Will he what?"

"Find another job? Stop harassing people?"

I sighed. "No. He probably won't."

"Why not?"

"Because people are idiots, mages especially. Think because they can do a few tricks they're practically invincible, and better than everyone else. He's been rattled, but it won't change him, not in the long run - he'll just settle for picking on targets he can get away with picking on, now."

A glance at the kid was enough to tell me that I was spooking him. With his suddenly on-edge expression, the puffiness around his eye and the nasty scrape along his cheek became all the more apparent, and I felt a slight pang of guilt for not noticing his injuries earlier. The pang faded quickly - it wasn't my problem, after all. Still...

"You should get yourself looked at. There's a couple of healers around here that take patients off the street, and they don't charge too much for it."

"No, it's okay. I'll be fine."

"Kay then," and I turned around. The incursion (or whatever this was) had been dealt with, and now I had to get back to spotting the next one. Which meant getting back to the apartment.

"Hey! Where're you going?"

"You said you'd be fine!" I called back. "I got business to deal with! Another time!" I put the kid out of my mind and strode briskly back to the building's entrance.

"Albert!" called a voice. It was Sting - one of the enforcers hanging around this area.

"Sting."

He took the hint and cut right to the point. "Me and Gordon saw that flare, Gordon's heading to cordon off the area. It's been taken care of?"

"Yeah. One lone gunman who managed to get away with bullying a fire elemental. I ran him off."

Sting shrugged. "Alright. Good. Getting kinda quiet around here, honestly."

I laughed a little. "Yeah. No serious incursions in a while - I wonder if we need to start expanding again. Anyways, I'm heading back upstairs, to get back on watch."

"You'll let us take the next one?"

I shrugged with one shoulder as I pulled the key out of my pocket. "Sure. No reason not to, unless of course you can't handle it."

As I slid the key into the lock, I heard him say "Well, we'll never know if we can handle it if- if we don't get the chance." The thud of boots meeting tarmac followed his parting line, before I could think of a response. It felt like he'd meant to say something else, but hadn't, and the message was lost on me.

Well, I could always ponder that question back in the apartment. The key came out, and I pulled the door open, stepping inside and rubbing my hands a little to warm up.

Something flickered in the corner of my eye, and I moved, catching the intruder by the collar and slamming him against the wall with a thud. I didn't worry about anyone hearing me; the Dice owned the building, and the residents were well aware of that fact, so any disturbances would be brushed off, and I was left a free hand to to deal with the redheaded kid. A single look at him was enough to confirm it - same auburn mop of hair, same scared expression. He'd probably slipped through the doorway behind me.

"Jeez, kid," I said, letting the sphere dissipate before it could form. My left hand had him pinned solidly against the wall, and the kid had little muscle and seemingly no inclination to break free. "What part of 'I've got business' did you not understand?"

"Please," he said. "I don't have anywhere else to go."

"Is that my problem?" I asked him.

"No...no, it's not, sir. But I thought..." he trailed off.

"Spit it out," I said, feeling my patience dwindling.

"My powers!" he blurted. "The director saw them - he wouldn't listen - threw me out - I don't know where to go. You have magic too - I saw it. Do you know someone who could help?"

"I know a lot of someones, kid," I said. "Whether they could help you...depends on what exactly you want and what you can offer in return. Nothing comes for free in this town, not anymore. And I'm not even at the top of my organisation. I don't make the recruitment calls - not that I think you'd meet the requirements. Sorry."

"Please!" he said, grabbing my sleeve. I resisted the instinct, honed by a dozen streetfights and scrapes, to throw him over my shoulder and through the door. "I could help. My powers - I could learn to use them, to help you, your people. Please. I can't go out there again."

The last note struck close to home. Something deep inside me stirred, and for a second I heard an pained echo behind his pleading voice, a fragment of memory I'd thought buried and forgotten. We can't live like this forever, Al, said the voice, almost sadly. As it faded, I looked up and met the kid's eyes. They were green, with a fragile quality that reminded me of stained glass. His eyes had been the same color, with the same quiet desperation behind them. And what the kid had said...

"Fine," I muttered. "Fine!" This time, it was loud enough to make him flinch. What was it with this kid? "I'll talk to the boss, see if he can find you a place in our organisation. It won't be nice, though - but if you're accepted, you won't have to live out in the cold.�"

"But where do I go now?" He asked, looking up at me, the worry not entirely gone from his eyes. I considered for a second, and sighed.

"You can stay at the apartment for tonight. Just for tonight. There's a cot, and I don't sleep on the job, so you can have that."

He sagged a little. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't call me sir," I sighed, "and don't thank me just yet. You don't know what you're getting into." I turned away before I could say more, letting him go. As secure as our position was becoming, it wasn't as if we could turn away magically gifted recruits who were looking for jobs. And for all I knew, the trainers at Dagger Lane could turn the kid into a reasonable enough fighter - he seemed persistent enough, and the rest could be taught. So it was logic that had driven me to accept him - it had to have been. Why else would I violate a dozen of our codes and let the kid crash in the apartment for a night?

I jogged up the stairs, quicker than I usually would, stepped out of the landing and into the dim hallway, letting my momentum carry me for a few seconds before I looked up. I stopped dead, taken aback by what I saw.

I'd locked the door before leaving - it was standard practice, couldn't be too safe in this part of town, after all. And yet now the door balanced in the doorway, slightly ajar, letting a glimmer of pale blue light creep out into the hallway. In a place where open doors didn't stay open for long, this one was yawning out an invitation...or a warning.

"What is-"

"Ssh!" I hissed, a short sound that left no room for a response. The only explanation was that someone was still inside.

Water pooled into my hand, solidifying into an orb. I took a step forward, then another, silently creeping down the hall, the sphere flitting ahead of me to cover my advance.

I didn't realise my error until the globe floated in front of the door, and into the path of the moonlight. The light met the water and almost glowed under the radiance - bright enough that anyone covering the door would have noticed it. I cursed under my breath, and barged for the doorway, shield forming in a heartbeat to cover my entrance.

"It's not polite to enter without knocking, Albert." It sounded half a reprimand, but the light, almost-teasing tone of the comment was enough to defuse the tension, and I unthinkingly dropped my shield, drawing the liquid back into my jacket sleeves.

She stood there, in the center of the room, facing the window with her back to me. Her hair fell like a curtain over her back, throwing her profile into shadow, and all I could see was the mischievous light in her eye. The air around her was suddenly tinged purple, and the vivid scent of fresh lavender filled the room. Suddenly, the dry, near-empty space now felt inconceivably lovely.

But Jeslin Thompson always managed to look lovely. Always. I still wasn't sure whether that was a side-effect of her magic or whether it was just me.

"Jes," I said. "You could've told me you were coming."

"Well, that would spoil the surprise, now, wouldn't it?" She turned around to face me. "It's nice seeing you - that you're well, I mean."

"The pleasure is mine, Jes - always has been." I let her sling her right arm around my shoulder and pull me into a half-hug.

"Who's the kid, by the way? she asked as she let go, leaving me to fumble for my answer for a second. A glance around my shoulder confirmed that he hadn't come in yet, but low-level telepaths didn't need to see someone to know that they were there."

"He's um...he wants to get recruited and I told him I'd put in a word for him. He's a fire elemental, young, but I think he's got the makings."

"Well, you'll probably have the chance to make that argument pretty soon," she commented lightly.

"Yeah...wait, what do you mean soon?"

It was at this moment that the kid chose to step into the room, nervously balancing a fireball in his right hand. He eyed Jes warily, a mix of confusion and fear playing across his features, until I cut in. "Put that out, kid, it's fine. This is Jes, my...well, not my superior, but I still work with her. She's part of the organisation you want to join."

The kid peered nervously at the two of us, and Jes turned to face him, a gentle smile reappearing on her face. "Hi there," she said, calmly. "Albert was just telling me about you. What's your name?"

I briefly feel another pang of annoyance for forgetting to ask the kid for his name. Thankfully, he manages to cough it up.

"Sam. Sam Wither...no, actually, it's just Sam."

"Nice meeting you, Sam," said Jeslin, her smile a little brighter now. The kid - Sam - looked like he was relaxing a little too, and I internally thank whatever reason Jes came out to visit for the night. Aside from her pleasant company, things always seemed to go more smoothly when she was around.

"Anyways, Jes, you were going to tell me about what you're doing out here," I commented, dryly.

She shot me a mock-annoyed look, before glancing back to Sam, and saying "Hey, Sam, Albert and I have to discuss business for a bit. You mind waiting out in the hall for a few minutes?"

I'd have expected the kid to bolt or get nervous if I'd said it, but Jes is the kind of person you just can't help trusting regardless of what she's asking you to do. Sam glanced once at me, received a nod, and with a shy look, he stepped out into the hallway.

"OK, I'll cut to the chase." Jes turned around, looking me dead in the eyes, all traces of warmth gone. "The Bookkeeper wants you at Dagger Lane tonight."

The words hit like an unexpected gut-punch. I was wanted at Dagger Lane? I hadn't been there since-

"Did he tell you why he wants me?" I asked, trying to get an angle. Invitations (or more accurately, summons) to Dagger Lane didn't come lightly, and I wasn't aware of any reason I'd be called there.

"No, he didn't, and contrary to what you'd think, Albert, I don't know about everything that's decided at Dagger Lane. The Bookkeeper doesn't tell anyone about what he's planning until it's a done deal. But I can tell it's big."

"How big?"

"Bigger than anything you've been part of thus far. Probably bigger than anything that the gang's done so far - and clearly, he thinks your track record is enough to qualify you a spot on it."

"I haven't done all that much," I protested.

"You've done as much as anyone to help us build what we have, and I'd be lying if I said he hasn't talked about finding a bigger stage for your talents, ever since he recruited you. You made an impression on him that day." She paused slightly, as if realising what she'd almost brought up, and it took a few seconds before she spoke again, something strange lacing her words. "Albert...I think this is your chance."

I knew what she meant when she said 'chance', and I was highly skeptical about it. Theatricality was one of our boss' specialties, and despite our steady gains and improving conditions, the bombastic proclamations were never quite fulfilled in the way we'd thought they would be. Plus, whatever assignment I'd be set to, I'd still be taking orders from Dagger Lane, stuck inside the organisation and beholden to someone else - even though I was just fine having it that way.

"So it looks like I'm finally moving up in the world." I muttered, not sure whether for my benefit or hers. "You don't mind watching the kid while I'm out, do you?" I felt slightly guilty for imposing on Jes, doubly so because I knew she hated sitting around more than anything, but it wasn't like I had that many other people who I could trust to ignore me waiving the code like this.

She sighed. "I can put up with it, I'll even cover your shift while you're gone. But it's just for you, and you owe me one."

"Don't I already owe you how many favours now - three? four?" I ask, half-smiling, as I step into the doorway.

"I'll be generous and call this the fourth. Now get going - you wouldn't want to keep Mr. Juniper waiting for too long."


	3. Chapter 3

Though it wasn't much compared to Castelia and Nimbasa, the region's biggest cities, East Striaton's Boardwalk and its neighboring areas were still lit-up, loud and bombastic. Their signs and buildings were positioned as if to look bigger, lights brighter, like children wearing their father's suit jackets. They were pretending at magnificence that they'd one day have for real.

I followed the familiar roads that led southeast, around the edge of the Boardwalk, close enough to see the lights but not close enough to be drawn by the glamour. I rarely found cause to visit the Boardwalk, these days - I preferred spending my idle hours in the older, quieter sectors of East Striaton, bordering on the Dreamyard. Their worn-down simplicity and quiet ambience were appealing in its own way.

Even before the Awakening, Dagger Lane had been known as Knife Lane - the result of a black joke that alluded to the violence prevalent in that part of town. Soon after magic had begun to manifest, that corner of East Striaton was seized by the Daggers, one of the first gangs formed by magicians - and Knife Lane became Dagger Lane, to match its new owners. Even after the Dice moved in a few months later, wiping out the Daggers in the process, the name was still firmly associated with that handful of city blocks. 'Dagger Lane' had a certain flair and simplicity to it, enough to convince the Bookkeeper to adopt the name for himself and his centre of power.

Even though the name was the same, the properties had been repurposed to streamline the organisation, converting the road and its buildings into a near-invulnerable fortress. Low-level psychics covered both ends of the road, scanning each passerby for unfamiliar signatures or hostile intent, while aerokineticists watched the skies, ready to shoot down any interlopers. The rows of semi-detached houses held a dual purpose - their basements were storehouses for the Dice's wealth, secured by layers of concrete and the finest mechanisms our steelthreaders could concoct. The houses themselves were residences for the human private security and magical enforcers that worked here full-time, over a hundred men all told, enough to repel any incursion in force.

Only one building had its doors open this late at night - The Diceton, my destination. From the outside, it looked just like any other small-town speakeasy, with the dim lights, the jazz quartet, and the relaxed ambience typical of such establishments. The similarity was misleading, intentionally so. This was the Bookkeeper's stronghold, the nerve center of his fledgling empire. Masked by paralegality and an unassuming front, he and his closest associates operated freely in the back rooms, carrying out the business of maintaining and expanding the Dice's dominion.

Invitations to those back rooms didn't come often. Or...ever, really. The Bookkeeper relied on others to handle his business, to transmit important messages for him, and to execute his designs, and he was content to do it from this isolated lair. Jes' supposition was probably correct - this had to be something big to justify me even coming here. But something too important to entrust to a messenger, that merited a face to face conversation...I'd been pondering the question since I left, and I had no plausible answers. It seemed like I'd have to wait for it to be spelled out for me.

At least I'd have the pleasure of being here, however much it amounted to. Heth was still in his spot at the door, his green dreadlocks hard to miss. He waved me in without a word, a little out of the ordinary...but he must have known that I wasn't here to relax.

Oddly enough, it felt darker inside than outside, even in the dead of night. The lights here were dimmed, tinted by the red screens surrounding them, and cigar smoke drifted in idle wisps through the air, darkening the small space. Behind the bar stood the bartender, who'd been new around the time when I'd joined the gang. Three months into his job, and he seemed much more comfortable, pouring drinks smoothly, chatting up the customers, looking to be entirely in his element.

"Lemonade, on the rocks," I called, when he glanced over to me. A nod, a few smooth motions, and he poured out my drink into a tall glass. The ice clinked softly against the glass as it drifted to the top.

"Enjoy," he said offhandedly, sliding away to attend to the other customers.

I found myself a quiet booth near the window and sat down, sending an idle glance towards the back door. The Diceton had specific rules, and one of them was the need for a formal, verbal invitation to enter the inner sanctum. As of now, no-one was coming out to deliver it, so I had a few minutes to relax and compose myself.

I settled back in my booth, raising the glass to my mouth and letting my eyes wander The Diceton. Tonight, as always, the crowd was almost entirely regular customers - hard-eyed, hard-drinking men, members of the Dice. They gathered in small groups, speaking in murmurs, probably about domestic spats or something along those lines.

Where the Boardwalk's speakeasies were loud and bright, this felt subdued, almost to the point of being subtle. I'd always supposed it served a double purpose. One purpose of the low-key atmosphere was to keep strangers away and limit the attention that The Diceton received. The other was to be to make the space more familial, almost exclusive, strengthening the bonds that held the gang together. The Bookkeeper had a habit of finding multiple purposes for the same thing.

"Albert," a voice called, from across the room. I glanced towards the back again. It was Cassius. Of course it was Cassius.

I sighed as I rose to my feet, feeling the eyes glancing my way. It was to be expected - every member of the Dice had wasted a free night here drinking with their co-workers, but only a small handful had actually passed through this doorway. In a way, this was an occasion in of itself, even if I wasn't up to appreciating it.

"I hope you've been well, Albert," commented Cassius, as I reached him. I stared into the hallway behind him, not meeting his gaze or giving any indication that I'd heard him.

"Very well," he said, after a few seconds. "We mustn't keep Mr. Juniper waiting." There was a touch of asperity in his tone this time, one that he evidently meant as a warning, reminding me I was on his turf. I ignored the hint of a threat. I didn't quite care that he was one of the Bookkeeper's closest associates - I didn't like him, he knew perfectly well why, and I'd be damned if I deferred to him in any way.

"Lead the way," I said, forcing a little fake cheer, and extending my arm as if I wasasking an usher to show me to my seat. I figured I could get away with it - the Bookkeeper wanted me, and Cassius wouldn't dare make him wait for the sake of a petty comeback.

He settled for a warning look, his yellow eyes flashing, before he stepped into the hallway. I followed a few steps behind.

"Still the last door on the right?" I asked.

"Yes," he responded, starting a little, as if he hadn't expected me to remember that.

I shrugged. "I have been here before, you know."

"Yes," he said, slowing slightly. "I remember your last visit here quite...vividly," and he looked backwards at me, letting me see his smirk flitting into existence. He'd had to bring that up again. I resisted the urge to punch the smug look off of his face.

It was my fault, though - I'd given him the window to get that shot off. And now we were at the end of the hallway, outside the door. "Enter," came a voice from inside, as Cassius was raising his hand to knock. He nodded, dropping his hand to the handle and pushing the door open.

It was a small space, but lavishly decorated. Bloodred velvet lined the walls, contrasting against the dark green wallpaper. A tall mahogany desk dominated the space, and behind it stood rows of dark oak bookcases, chock-full. The wood glistened in the candlelight. Somehow, the dark, forbidding colours gave the space an elegant, cultured air. It felt strangely like a library's annex, or a college professor's office.

If it was a library, or an office, then the Bookkeeper could have easily passed for the librarian, or the professor. Maybe before the Awakening, he'd been one of those two things, or both. He had a slight build, somewhat frail, and his iron-grey hair was cropped short. A pair of reading glasses were tucked into a pocket under his lapels. Yet his most striking features were his clear blue eyes, which shone with a piercing, cutting intelligence. One of the other sector captains had told me that the focus and intensity of his gaze made him think that the boss was constantly thinking of the best way to cut someone into pieces, and standing here, I could appreciate where he was coming from.

"Welcome, Albert, my boy," he said from his easy chair. When things were going well like this, he was charming, expansive, waxing on in good cheer that almost reached his eyes. When the chips were down, though, the kind mask dropped, and the Bookkeeper - the ruthless, unforgiving crime lord - came to the fore. From appearances, I was dealing with the former, but I knew that wasn't a reason to forget my manners.

"Mr. Juniper," I responded, inclining my head. "Thank you for inviting me, I'm honored to be here."

"Yes, I can imagine that you are. I don't get many visitors these days, so having someone in is always a delight. Cassius, would you kindly attend to the Adjunct Files? I'd like to speak with Albert privately."

"Yes, Mr Juniper," and he was gone, slipping down the hallway. Good riddance. I stepped inside the office, moving over to stand behind one of his chairs, placing my hands on the seat back.

"How goes your patrol routine?"

"It's been going well, sir. We haven't had a serious incursion in two weeks. The only activity on my sector is dealing with strays - loners trying to set up their own operations. Dealing with them is more like extermination work than actual defense."

"I assume that, like an exterminator, you're being thorough with your work." It wasn't a question.

I shrugged. "As thorough as we can be. A couple wanted a spot in a group - those of them that had the potential, I forwarded to Harrison. Those that wanted to fly solo, we told them to fly solo elsewhere. Forcefully."

"Good. From the sounds of things, you're attending to patrols and engagements personally, more often than not."

"Yes, I am. It's good practice," I commented, my voice sounding strangely defensive.

"Even for a sector captain?"

"Yes," I said. "There's not so much paperwork that I need to be in a back-office attending to it. Actively patrolling allows me to keep a close eye on developments and establish a rapport with the other enforcers, and it'll be easier to take charge if the occasion ever arises."

"Yes, well, as is your prerogative," remarked the Bookkeeper, waving his hand idly as if to dismiss the question. "Though it would be optimal for you to manage from the rear, I haven't called you in tonight to discuss your management habits."

He bent down towards his desk, and the metallic thunk of a lock opening filled the air, reverbating through the office. He rustled through a drawer for a few seconds, before drawing out a small clear vial capped with a light brown cork.

Inside the vial, a yellow-green liquid churned, small bubbles periodically forming and drifting to its surface. When I looked at it, I found myself remembering my key, and the otherworldly luminosity that radiated from it. This liquid radiated the same pale light, but more forcefully, enough that the vial glowed despite the candlelight. And the sense of artificiality bled through as well, as if this light was drawn from some far-off dimension and imposed on the air, overwriting reality itself.

"Velos," said the Bookkeeper, quietly.

"Velos, sir?" I asked.

"That is what the documents that accompanied this vial called it. Velos. You recognise the glow, yes?" I nodded, a little wary.

"There is magic inside this vial," he said, confirming my suspicions. "How this Velos was infused with magic, I do not know, nor for what ends."

"But you know something about what it does."   
It wasn't a question, nor should it have been. The Bookkeeper had little patience for trifles or curiosities, only things that worked. If he wanted the Velos so badly, it had to be useful for something.

"Perceptive as ever, my nightclaw." I couldn't stop my lip from curling - not that I'd admit it, but I hated that nickname. Fortunately, the Bookkeeper was too engrossed in his thoughts to notice my lapse. "The documents that accompanied this vial were very illuminating about what it could do, and my initial tests confirmed those reports. If it could be refined...we wouldn't need it for ourselves, per se, but if we can possess this Velos, then we will control the future of this city, potentially even the region itself." His voice changed as he spoke, becoming slower, almost reverential. I didn't think he was capable of being reverential.

And I didn't know what to think about it. Infusing objects with magic was a known practice, and I'd seen my fair share of steelthreaders' work, but this liquid, this Velos was different. Something about it was just more vibrant, more unnatural than I'd seen before, to the point of being unsettling. And the strangest, most disturbing part was that I couldn't sense it - to me was like a dead space, where my power had no dominion.

"So where do I come in?" I asked, trying to redirect the conversation.

"This vial was obtained by one of my operatives in Castelia," he responded, tapping the vial once. He tucked it back into the drawer before speaking again. "This operative sent his own report about claiming it from a warehouse in the Western Districts., Plasma territory. His report suggests that there is more out there, although the trail is ambiguous and could lead anywhere.

For the most part, my operatives in Castelia are good men, but better suited for gathering information and raids than claiming territory, fighting, and pursuing leads to dark places. I need a hunter in Castelia, a hunter that can follow this trail and get what we need...and you're the best I have in my employ."

"So you want me to go to Castelia?" I asked. "For how long?"

"Indefinitely. This Velos business must be investigated, and thoroughly - we must know all there is to know regarding its creation and the parties behind it. With that in mind, you, and whichever members of the Dice you could enlist to join you, would be free to operate however you would."

As I was digesting that, the Bookkeeper continued without missing a beat, "In addition, all the operatives I have deployed in Castelia will be ordered to report to you, and aid you however possible. Even if the trail leads outside of Castelia, their support may prove useful. You'll meet with them in Castelia, and follow up on their leads.

You have your mission. Cassius will have your team's transport arranged, and you can give him any supply requisitions you might need to make."

I nodded, glanced back to the door, eager for a little space. "Will that be all, Mr Juniper?" I asked.

"Yes, that will be all. Good fortune, Albert." The last time we'd met, the Bookkeeper had told me he didn't believe in luck. Granted, he'd meant it as a reassurance, but the fact he was wishing me good fortune now meant that he was thoroughly invested in this business. Somehow, that managed to be reassuring, and unsettling at the same time.

"Thank you," I said, meaning it, as I walked to the door. I closed the door gently behind me, ignoring the low wail it gave as it swung shut. The beautiful old room vanished from sight, and it felt like I'd closed the door to another world.

And I have, technically, I thought to myself. Compared to Striaton, Castelia might as well have been another world - and that was where I was headed, now. Funny - I still felt a little dazed from the discussion, but not so much that I couldn't walk it off.

I was halfway down the hallway when I turned into a seemingly empty room and spoke. "Cassius. I was told that any supply requisitions and personnel approvals I needed, I could make of you. Do you have time to take a list?"

The note of asperity was there when he responded, a little more pronounced this time. "Sadly, I do not. I have my own matters to attend to, matters whose importance to the Dice is equal to that of your...mission. You'll have to return later."

"Considering what Mr. Juniper was telling me, I find it hard to believe that whatever you're up to is that important," I commented. "But no matter - I'll give Qarl my requisitions. I prefer working through him anyways."

That made him look up, his eyes flashing in the gloom, a slight hiss emanating from his direction. "Be careful, Albert. You may have Mr Juniper's favour, but not all of us feel the same way as he does. And your luck will only last you so long."

I gave him a pointed look. He pretended to not notice it, waving idly as he turned back towards his lair. It was fine. I could deal with him later - or not at all. Preferably not at all - I didn't need him, I could get whatever supplies I needed elsewhere.

I walked out of the hallway and into the Diceton's front room, ignoring the looks I got as I headed back to my booth. I drained the rest of my drink in a single gulp, left a few bills on the table, and turned towards the door. The night air was ice-cold, and it cut like a knife as it whistled through the alleyways. I tugged my coat over my shoulders, then started walking, ignoring the chill as best I could. Inside, my mind was pondering the problem before me.

"Don't cheat to even the odds. Cheat to tip them." It was those words that inspired the Dice's name and working philosophy, relying on thorough preparations and co-ordination to give us an edge in any situation. And though I was loath to admit it, I'd internalised that doctrine far better than most, enough that it was my go-to for trying to analyse some questions.

Still, I didn't know how I was going to apply it to my current situation. Getting out of this assignment was impossible - if the Bookkeeper wanted you to do something, you did it. And as for the assignment itself, there were too many uncertainties in the mix - Castelia, the Velos, its makers, and probably more I couldn't think of. It was hard to cheat effectively when you didn't know what the rules were.

Hopefully Jes might have some ideas. She usually did.

I opened the door to a quiet, darkened apartment. The kid - Sam - was curled up in the cot, dead to the world. Jes sat back in the chair, one knee drawn up, her eyes contemplating the shadowed vista outside the window. Above her, the moon gleamed pale grey.

"I miss anything?" I asked, in lieu of a 'Hello, how are you?'

"No," she responded, stirring in response to my question. "It's been quiet since you've left."

"Kay." I pulled the door shut, and walked over to her side. She looked up as I approached, the hexagonal patterns in her iris glimmering under the moonlight. Somehow, the effect made her look younger, almost vulnerable. I found myself remembering that despite the front of confidence she put on, she was still a young girl, barely a few months older than me.

"What did the Bookkeeper want from you?" she asked, startling me out of my thoughts.

"He wants me out of Striaton," I responded, repeating the story I'd come up with on the walk back. "He sees opportunity in Castelia, wants the Dice to set up a side operation there. And he wants me running that side operation."

I left out the bit about the Velos. She didn't need to know about it - not now, at least - and somehow, even thinking about the green vial was enough to bring that unsettling feeling back. Might as well keep that one secret for the Bookkeeper, for now.

Jes had been silent while I spoke, watching me, nodding slightly once or twice. "This could be your chance, you know," she said, quietly, a few seconds after I'd finished. "To get out. To leave Striaton behind and start fresh."

Damn. Of course that was the angle she'd consider.

"I don't know," I said, the words sliding out slowly, as if I'd released them from some deep place in my heart and let them finally crawl their way to the surface. My next words were more level, more considered - more rational. "Even if we're in Castelia, we're still working for him - and I don't think there's anywhere in Unova where we wouldn't be within his reach."

"Well, we could just leave Unova behind. I have always wanted to see Kalos," she mused, hand on her chin, staring off into the distance.

"You're just teasing me, Jeslin," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Am I? It would make for a good story, though. Two runaway outlaws fleeing to a strange foreign city, surviving day to day as best they can, kept afloat only by their undying love..."

"Okay, now I know that you're teasing me."   
I shook my head a little, trying and failing to dispel the smile on my face. "Anyways, it's my assignment, not yours. The only outlaws would be me and whoever I manage to talk into this."

"Who says I wouldn't be up to going?" I looked quizzically at Jes, but she was suddenly animated, raising a finger to shush me. "The Bookkeeper wants you to recruit a team to be based in Castelia, and he said you could take anyone you want for it. Last I checked, anyone does include me."

"You think he'd let you go?" I asked, a little disbelieving. Jeslin was a fixture with the Crooked Dice. She was the Bookkeeper's (admittedly unofficial) liaison with most of his organisation, and it was well-known that he was grooming her for a higher position at Dagger Lane. As much as I'd like to have her watching my back, I wasn't sure that the old man would tolerate her shifting base.

"He would. He wouldn't like it, but he could find other people to work with. Besides, in terms of rank, second-in-command of the Castelia branch would be nothing to sneeze at."

"You're assuming that we can make a respectable Castelia branch to begin with," I deadpanned.

"Well, if he's sending you and giving you carte blanche to operate out there, he clearly believes it's possible. And in any case, I can do more helping you than I can here in Striaton. If you want to clear out a corner of Castelia, and hold it against the Plasmas, the other gangs, and the League, you'll need some firepower to work with, and someone to help you keep things running smoothly as you recruit."

She did have a point. The Bookkeeper was good at identifying powerful recruits, and Jes was one of the most powerful magicians he'd brought over to our side. I'd only seen her in action a handful of times, but that was more than enough for me to respect her abilities. Plus she was intelligent, charming, and attentive, and she would be a big help in navigating the cutthroat Castelia underworld.

Still...

"Are you sure you want to come with? Really sure?" I asked, one last time.

"Yes, I'm sure. It's been getting boring around here, to be honest. Too many meetings, too much business, and I don't remember the last time I did something fun."

"The price of being so high up," I said, smirking slightly.

"Yes, exactly! You can't do anything fun for yourself, because you have underlings to do it for you. Well, I'll have to get out a little in Castelia, finally get to cut loose. And," she said, leaning over and giving me a playful shove. "If you hadn't noticed, we tend to work well together. I'd hate for our partnership to get broken up."

"I hadn't noticed," I responded. "Although in my defense, whenever you're around, the fights go by too fast for me to keep track of what's happening."

"Well, considering that we're both still here after all those fights, I think that's a net positive for our team."

"We can't really be a team, Jes. Two people is a duo, not a team. And speaking of which," I sighed, remembering my other obligation. "Damn, that was what I was meaning to ask you. I have to recruit a few other people to take with me - and I have no idea where to start."

Jes shrugged. "Come on, Albert. You can't tell me that you don't know anyone who wouldn't be willing to spend a few weeks living the high life in Castelia."

"Well, when you phrase it like that, maybe. Would you be willing to come and help me pitch it to them?"

"I'd love to. Sadly," and she patted the chair, for emphasis, "I'm covering someone else's patrol shift. Can't leave till sunup, I'm sure you know the drill."

"Fine," I sighed. "I'll do it alone." I turned, walking for the door.

"Hey," called Jeslin, as my hand brushed the handle. "I was being serious, earlier. Even if you don't find anyone else, I'd still be willing to go with you."

Damn. A part of me had hoped she was joking, and the other part... "Yeah, I know," I said, slowly, trying not to stammer over my own words. "I appreciate the offer, I really do. And I owe you at least two more favours if you do come with."

"Albert, I already have a lifetime's worth of favours owed me," she said, laughing lightly. "I don't need any more. In fact, I owe you for being willing to take me."

I tried to respond, only to notice the lump that'd formed in my throat. And I didn't know what I could say, in all honesty. All this time I'd been thinking about how much I owed her, for having my back, for being open with me and letting me be open in turn...until I cared enough about what she thought that her statement was enough to nearly reduce me to tears.

"Did I say something?"

"Nah," I tried to respond. It came out as a choked, wet sound. I took a breath and tried again. "Just...you're still selling yourself short, Jes." I stepped out of the room before she could respond, putting the door between us. And then I stood still, facing the wall, focused on swallowing the lump and composing myself a little. I could deal with this later. Probably should deal with this later. I'd been through a lot today, and I still had more tasks to attend to.

What had I been planning on doing...recruiting. Yes. Recruiting. I had a few names in my head, a few haunts to visit. And the night's still young. Might as well get started.


	4. Chapter 4

"Albert? Hey, Earth to Al!"

I blink. "Jes, you know I don't like being called that."

"Well, I needed to get your attention somehow. Otherwise you'd probably just keep staring at the cute guy over by the streetlight."

"He's not that cute." Jes tilts her head, giving me an oh, really? look, and I sigh, glancing back out of the alleyway. The guy's still standing there, his dark-brown hair ruffling slightly in the wind, just unkempt enough to look inviting. His face is a little long, with high cheekbones and an easy smile, and the casual grace with which he moves is magnetic.

"OK, he is cute," I amend my earlier statement.

"Cute enough to consider finding a different alley for you and him?"

"No, cute enough to just silently stare because I'm too scared of getting shot down." Ironically, I'd probably use the same words to describe Jes, but she doesn't need to know that. "Plus, we're on a schedule."

"True," she responds, pulling her pocket watch out. "We need to be there in five minutes. Want to leave now and get there early?"

I shrug, let her reach over and slip her hand through mine. She gives me a smile, before turning away and dragging me down the alleyway, en route to our next assignment. I mentally revise our entrance route, the floor plan, and the opponents we were expecting, but try as I might, I can't ignore the warmth of her hand, nor get the idiotic grin off my face.

Strangely enough, I'm ok with it. Even if we are heading into near-certain death...at least I'm doing it with her.


	5. Chapter 5

My first stop was the Diceton, again. It was getting quieter now, the band had packed up, and only a handful of people were still drinking. And despite the late hour, Heth was still there at the door, just where I'd expected to see him.

"Heth", I called. I stood halfway up the stairs, far enough from the entrance that if he wanted to talk to me, he'd have to walk over here, away from the entrance. It was intentional - taking him away from the entrance kept us from being overheard by anyone inside, and, well, I didn't want to be overheard.

"Albert," he responded, stepping over. His green hair fell across his face, covering his right eye. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," I said, keeping my voice low and neutral. "Just had an offer that I thought you might want to hear."

"An offer?" he asked, slowly. For a second, I felt a strange sense of resentment - and then it was gone, and he was eyeing me, suspicion glinting in his eyes. No doubt he was using his ability, trying to pry my motives out of my head without me noticing.

"Nothing off the books, I promise," I said, using the lingo for an above-the-board task, and hoping he'd sense the truth in it. "Just...a step up, is all. I'm putting together a team for a job."

"And you want me?" He wasn't bothering to hide his skepticism.

This wasn't exactly going to plan. "Well, yeah," I said, trying to be reassuring, retake control of the conversation. "Every team needs a psychic of some level, especially if we're going to be operating where we're operating." Again, the note of anger flared, and I had to stop, bat it down before I spoke again. Heth didn't seem impressed. "And your empathetic power is pretty potent. So yeah, I want you. You in?"

It was a while before he responded. "You know, Albert, not all of us are glory-seekers." The statement rattled me, but he continued on before I could get to think about it. "Maybe you wouldn't get it, but I'm happy where I am. I don't need to hop on a train with you to find some sort of meaning in my life."

Another strong flare of resentment, even more alien than the last, shot through me. I was about to voice my frustration, lash out at him for his stubbornness, when it hit me. These weren't my feelings. They were his.

I felt a slight chill at the realisation, and what it meant. Psychics were notoriously reserved, their emotions subdued, and I'd never heard of one casting his feelings out like this. There were only two reasons that I was feeling his resentment - either he was intentionally warning me off, or my presence rattled him that much that he lost his customary control. Either way, though, indicated that this wasn't going to work out.

"Sorry, Albert," he said, as if he'd come to the same conclusion I had. He stepped backwards, away from the landing, putting a little more distance between us. "I'll have to decline."

"It's no problem," I responded, forcing a smile onto my face, hoping it would mask the twinge of annoyance I felt. "Thanks for listening, I'll be off now."

He could probably sense the twinge morphing into a slow burn, annoyance becoming anger, as I slid my hands into my coat pockets and strolled away. To him, it would be a twisted echo of his own feelings - and I could imagine he'd take it as well as I'd taken his rejection.

But it was fine. I'd known going in that not everyone would want to enlist in my venture. I still had a list, still had people I could track down, and the moon was still high in the sky.

Even in the dark, the back alleys of East Striaton were as familiar as my left arm (tattoo and all), and I picked each shortcut well in advance, working out the fastest way to my destination. 15 minutes of walking got me to the intersection of Marlborough and Pryde, and the half-rusted door at the corner. I pulled it open, ignoring its agonised groan, and descended into the tunnels below.

Most of Striaton's underpassages were supposed to have been condemned, including this one. It was one of those things that the people in charge talked about, to give the impression that they were doing something for the city - and then they had never actually got around to doing it. After the Awakening, the new people in charge had made no such pretenses - they'd seen the merit of maintaining the underpasses, for the purpose of extending their control across the city. The Bookkeeper had made especial use of them to hide supplies and covertly move his agents, shrouding his actions in one more layer of mystery and making his goals that much harder to decipher.

But despite his interest in the underpasses, he'd never gone to the effort of renovating them, of clearing the blocked passages and making them a little less rundown and hellish. Maybe, I thought, contemplating the dank, grimy hallway, that task was just beyond him. Rot like this didn't clear away easily.

It wasn't comfortable in a traditional sense, but the gloom was familiar, and the damp felt strangely secure. Here, my magic was as strong as it had ever been, and I reached out with my senses, felt the moisture all around me, hanging in the air or bleeding rivulets along the walls. I was in my element, and I felt it reaching back to me, its influence clearing away the weariness and the doubt. Refreshed by this small use of my power, I put my body on autopilot and let my mind start ticking again, computing angles and potential hooks for my next mark.

I started by looking at my impediments. He was a creature of routine, suspicious of changes and surprises. But his routines were equally repetitive, and there were a few things I could point out that might jar him. Flattery would also be a good play, God knew he appreciated it.

But the friendship card would be my best play - here, unlike with Heth, I had a solid past connection with my mark, one I could try and leverage. My planning finalised, I looked up, and the familiar sign was there in front of me, barely distinguishable in the dark. I was right next to my exit.

I pushed the door open - the streetlight stung my eyes, and I blinked once or twice to clear them as I emerged from the underpassage. This neighborhood was more upscale than most of Striaton, and even at three in the morning, the brighter ambience was notable. The semi-detached structures were a little less pedestrian, their stones a little cleaner and their windows displayed more knots and flourishes, the trappings of wealth. And at the end of the street was the local watchman - a lion about as big as I was, standing atop a granite podium. Its mouth hung open in a roar, and its grey paw was transfixed in mid-air, as if it was batting away a fly.

I passed the lion without a second glance, proceeding to the houses beyond it. One unit�s door was set further back than any of the other houses, noticeably so. On the few occasions I'd seen it before, I found myself thinking about how it felt like a badger's den - withdrawn, carefully prepared, home to a single determined denizen. And anyone foolish enough to venture too close or enter uninvited could expect much worse than a bloody nose.

I stepped up the stairs to that unit, walking over to the door. I knocked twice, waited a second, knocked once, then knocked twice again. And just for good measure, I let some fluid creep from my sleeves, projecting a smaller version of the shield I'd used earlier.

"It's me," I said, as the door swung open and a gunshot drowned out my voice. The ping, more vibrant than before, followed, and for a second the two sounds melded into a piercingly high note.

"You know, Phil," I commented as the sound faded, "one of these days, that shot's going to ricochet at the wrong angle, and I'm going to have to explain to Mr Juniper how you were found dead in your doorway."

"Can't be too safe, Albert, you know how it is," responded the house's occupant, twirling the gun around his index finger. He was about an inch shorter than me, with matted auburn hair, and an overcoat thrown over his wiry frame. "These eyes have been fooled before."

"That was one time. I still think shooting everyone who comes by here is an overreaction to that one time."

"Is it really an overreaction, Al?" he asks, pointedly. "When anyone who walks up to this door could just be her wearing someone else's face, am I that out of line to be paranoid like that? Especially at 4 AM in the morning?"

'It's 3:37. I checked my pocket watch five minutes ago."

"At 4 AM in the morning, when for all I know she's waiting on the other side of the door, is it wrong for me to be concerned with my safety like that?"

I fell silent. As silly and pointless as this routine seemed, when it came to individual in question, he was being exactly the right amount of paranoid.

"Thought so," he remarked, a half-grin stretching across his face. The gun disappeared into a side pocket, and he pulled the door a little further open. "Anyways, come on in," he said, waving idly behind him.

It was a small place. Though Phil liked his creature comforts, he was also a man of simple tastes and prudence, and his house reflected that. A few pieces of furniture were scattered near the entrance, all seemingly new - but I knew which ones were covering tears in the faded grey wallpaper. The rest of the house carried forwards the mismatch of new and old, well-kept and battered, but it felt less second-hand and more familiar, lived-in.

We walked into the living room, my host hitting a switch on the wall to brighten up the space. "I'd offer you a drink, but it's way too early in the morning for that," Phil commented.

"It's fine, wouldn't want to chip into your stockpile," I said. "How's your gig been?"

"Gig's good. Dice has this neighborhood locked down, and there's nothing to do except do the rounds and collect the green every week. I sleep in most days - it's not like there's anything better to do with my time."

"Sounds like the life," I remarked, quietly.

He laughed. "Yeah. If nothing else, all this downtime means I'm slightly less tired when I get a knock on the door at 4 in the morning.

Speaking of which, Albert, it's rare that you find the time to darken my door these days. Why're you here?"

"That can wait", I said, glancing around the room. I didn't want to come on too strong, after how the last meeting had gone. "You've been renovating," I noted, trying to change the subject.

"Yeah. Just a little moving things around, trying some different looks. Oh, and I picked up a new rug from one of the triggermen, tossed it around here somewhere."

"The lamp looks new, as well," I added. That comment was sincere - it was a nice lamp.

"Yeah, that too. Anyways", he pointed a finger at me here, "you're stalling, trying to let me go on, rather than explaining what you're here for."

Damnit.

"It's a job," I responded, giving him the simplest possible answer I could.

"What kind of job?"

"Think of all the jobs you've hated - big jobs, long jobs, and out-of-territory jobs. This is all of the above. Boss wants me in Castelia, to take charge of his agents there, carve out a new base for the Dice, and look into something else for him. I wanted to see if you'd be up for it."

Phil chuckled as he rose from his seat, crossing the room in a few strides. "Don't worry, this is for me," he said as he grabbed the decanter, shaking out deep brown liquid into a glass. "Starting to regret not starting on this a few minutes ago. That way I could've taken your news a little better."

I decided not to comment on that.

"You've risen fast, haven't you, Albert?" Phil commented, barely stifling another chuckle. "Three months in, you'd had your own sector to run, and now you're being packed off to take charge in Castelia. Clearly the boss has some faith in you."

Not for the first time this night, I considered that he was probably right. Some of it was my fault, though - my recruitment into the gang had made an impression on the Bookkeeper, enough for him to back me and continually push me upwards. And despite my detractors - Cassius among them - I'd handled my assignments well, validating the Bookkeeper's trust at every step of the way. And here I was. Being packed off to Castelia and literally entrusted with the Dice's future.

On some level I was conscious that the higher I rose, the deeper my ties to the gang would stretch, and the harder it would be to eventually walk away. But that was still a problem for the future. For now, I had to focus on talking Phil into this.

"Well," I said, "the boss has faith in me, and I want you with me in Castelia. You in?"

Before he could respond, I raised a hand, and pointed at the bottle. "You should probably put that away first. The last time you drank before making a serious decision, well, you're still paranoid enough to shoot strangers who walk up to your door."

He grimaced. "Touche," and he placed the bottle on his table, idly rubbing his hands together. "So, the boss says you can have me if you want?"

"He says I can have anyone I want. There's probably a limit to it...but I've already roped in a heavy hitter or two, and he's fine with me recruiting them." I stretched the truth a little with that - I had Jes and no-one else, but she still counted as one of the gang's heavy hitters, so it wasn't a lie.

But the truth didn't seem to have the right impact on him. "If you could have anyone you wanted, then why would you want me? I don't even have magic, Albert. In Castelia, I'd be deadweight at best."

"You're good with that gun."

He shrugged. "Not good enough, considering you're sitting there."

"I have defensive magic. Most people don't. Plus," I shrugged a little, "I knew you were going to try and shoot me. The people in Castelia won't. Think about that a little."

"Maybe," said Phil, clearly unconvinced. But it wasn't a flat no, either.

"I mean, I'm looking for a little synergy here. If I wanted powerful mages, I could find them, but I need more than that. I need someone who can run point and troubleshoot in a crisis. I haven't met many problems that couldn't be solved with a well placed bullet - and you're still the best shot I've seen."

He smiled. "And you're still a flatterer, Al."

"I try." After a few seconds, I decided to nudge him again. "You still haven't given me a solid answer. You want in?"

"The part of me that the liquor hasn't hit yet is saying that you wouldn't be asking me if you didn't actually want me. It's also saying that you're good enough as a leader to avoid fucking up, so it's not like joining you is that big a risk to my life expectancy. That's 2 for 2. Obviously this job is big, but yo�'ve risen to the occasion before. I still remember that incident with the Darrigans, and how you dealt with those bastards."

I might have blushed at that last comment - Jes and I had dealt with the Darrigans, but it was much messier, much more touch-and-go than we'd claimed it to be afterwards. If I told him the truth about it - leaving aside the fact that Jes would kill me, it would probably color his judgement in the wrong way, and I couldn't have that. So I stayed silent, inclining my head to tell him to 'go on.'

"But it's not like I'm particularly itching to leave a cushy gig like this one. Let me think about it a little more," he said. Not a yes, but not a no, either. Progress.

"You'd best not think too long," I commented as I rose. "I don't know when we leave, but it should be soon. Boss doesn't like to wait on these things."

"True. You got some other people to meet?"

"Yeah," I responded. "But I came to you before...most of the others."

"Wow, you really know how to flatter a guy."

I raised a hand before he could launch into one of his falsetto impressions. "Please. Your place was just closer than the others', and I don't want to spend my evening walking circles around Striaton."

"I see," he commented. "Anyone you've recruited that I'd recognise?"

"Just one recruit so far, discounting your maybe," I responded, being frank. "And you'd definitely know who it is."

"Your usual partner-in-crime?"

"Yep," I shrugged, "although recruiting you was my idea, not hers. I figured you could use the knock on your door."

"Oh really? And why do you think I'd need that?" he asked, a wry look on his face.

"You're bored," I shot back. "You need something to do or you'll wind up glued to your couch, redoing your den a dozen times before anything sticks. This is the first opportunity that's coming your way, and for all you know, you won't find someone else to offer you the chance. You might as well take it now."

For a second, I worried that in my exhaustion, I'd gone too far. But Phil just laughed at that. "You still don't mince words, do you Albert? Maybe I'll give this offer a little extra consideration now."

We were at the door. "Just remember, consideration only counts if it's sober. Oh, and thanks for having me."

"Anytime," he said, glancing out the doorway. "You best take care of yourself, Albert. It's a rough world out there."

"Don't I know it," I responded, looking out to the road. I saw him shrug slightly in my peripheral vision as he turned back inside.

It hadn't been entirely unsuccessful, I thought to myself as I made my way east. A maybe was better than a no, and it was an improvement on a no, anyways. At this rate, I should be able to extract a few yeses before the night faded away.

On the eastern edge of Striaton, near where Dagger Lane began, the dojo stuck out like a sore thumb. The redwood pillars and the paper sign with its flowing Kantonese script looked out of place against the more industrial buildings around this part of town. The soft light of the dojo's candles was offset by the streetlight, which was almost garish-looking in comparison.

From inside came a series of heavy thumps, one after the other, each one heavier and more violent than the last. The beats landed close together, enough that if you weren't paying attention, it bled together into one elongated note, a peal of thunder rolling and rolling without end, deep enough that people could probably hear it in their apartments across the street. I smiled slightly as I crossed the road. If I hadn't known his schedule, that thunder would have been enough to tell me that my last recruit was inside.

He stood in a far corner of the gym, his attention fixed by the bag in front of him. He wore a loose white uniform, its folds darkened and creased by his exertions, but his movements showed no signs of fatigue. There was a fierce, grim intensity to the way he pummelled, brutalised the bag in front of him.

His next kick caught the bag's midsection, widening a tear in the fabric. Sand began to spill out, and the fighter took advantage of it, taking advantage of the shift in balance to lash out with one hand, sending it spinning. It was as if that tear was deliberate, to simulate how a blow to a human opponent would leave them similarly unbalanced.

Good. If he was practicing new combat routines like this, keeping himself prepared, then his inclusion would probably be all for the better.

"Kenta," I called from across the gym, my voice thankfully steady. I even managed to sound somewhat awake.

He fixed me with his steely look. "Albert," he said, quietly, with just a trace of a Kantonese accent in his voice. "What brings you here?"

"I have a job." I paused to give him a second to digest that, and continued. "It's in Castelia - way afield, but if that doesn't bother you, I've got an opening in my team."

For a second, he stayed silent. Then, "Why would you come to me? If you wanted men who would go to Castelia, then you could find them elsewhere."

"Every team needs someone like you," I responded, "someone who can enter a fight and win it. I'm not looking for powerful mages here - I need professionals who can do a job. You fit that criterion."

"Your mandate is to fight?" The question was quiet, pointed.

"Not necessarily," I said, my voice still steady. "Its retrieval and carving out a base. Fighting shouldn't come into it, unless we�'re unlucky."

"But you expect fights nonetheless. You crave them, even - else you would not have come to me."

"Yes," I said, reluctantly, trying to ignore the implications of his statement. I wouldn't let myself get thrown off like I'd been by Heth. "But that doesn't matter - I'm looking for the best people I can find. Are you in?"

He stood stock-still, his eyes boring into me.

"Very well," he said. "You know where to find me, Albert."

I stayed silent. I knew what he meant - in his unique way, he'd signalled tacit approval to joining my team.

"See you then," I said, turning to leave. Behind me, I could hear him hanging up a new bag, preparing for another round. I left him to it.

Funny, I thought to myself as I walked out of the dojo. Despite my reservations about Kenta, now that I had his assent I trusted in him more than anyone else I could have added to my team. His loyalty was a strange thing - it was grounded in concepts I rarely found the time to consider, and thus it could be fickle as a tossed coin or hard as enchanted metal. Still, I had that loyalty for now - and if I still had it when the time came to pursue the Velos, it would be more than enough to work with. I'll just have to keep that loyalty, then. Whatever it takes.

Looking up, I saw a few ribbons of pink lacing the dark sky. A faint nimbus was rising in the east, as the clouds lightened. My path led east too, past the edges of the city, towards the glow on the sky's edge.

Kettigan Hill stood before me, the highest summit south of the badlands. It was a crossroads of sorts, lying between the Dreamyard and the old station, astride the road that had once run between them. The Hill was the only one of those three locations that was frequented by non-Dice members, but given the early hour, I'd probably be alone up there. Which was also fine - quiet and empty was the way I liked most places, and Kettigan Hill was no exception.

As I reached the crest of the hill I could feel the first light of dawn creeping over the treeline, just ahead of me. Acting on an instinct I couldn't explain, I turned my head backwards to follow the light, watching it cast its glow upon Striaton.

The sight was magical. The city was bathed in reddish-gold light, its worn stones turned incandescent under the rising sun. The park and western districts seemed more vibrant, their shadows receding into the distance. Striaton Canal seemed to glitter in the morning light. In the tall buildings, their confident glow, I could see the city�'s vibrant strength, which so rarely made itself apparent. Light and shadow melded, two halves of one whole, and within that whole, I saw the city as it was and as it could be.

Funny, that I was seeing Striaton like this only now. And yet...maybe it meant something. This was my home, but it was no longer enough for me, and it hadn't been for a while. And maybe Jes was right - maybe I did need a fresh start, one I couldn�'t get here.

So under the first light of the dawn, I looked down on my city one last time. I looked down on my city, seeing the familiar byways, the worn stones, the fond memories in my mind's eye, making the scene all the more vivid. It was still refreshing - heartening, even - to know that though I would depart, this city would still remain, to grow and carry on in my absence. The forest could live without one tree, and the tree could survive beyond the forest.

Was it an omen? A sign? I didn't know. But I felt a new lightness in my step as I descended from Kettigan Hill, and despite my previously mixed feelings, I now felt suddenly hopeful, for the first time in a long while.

Just a few more things to cover, and I can finally set off, I thought to myself. Then I slung my hands back into my coat pockets and turned my face south, following the path I'd started myself upon.


	6. Chapter 6

I ducked through a hole in the fence, and cursed when my heavy coat caught on one of the battered wood planks. It took me a few seconds to drag myself loose, and a few more for water to trickle out of my sleeves, wrapping themselves around the splinters and casting them to the ground.

I stood up, taking a breath, and I stopped to survey the area. The Dice weren’t strangers to barren, rotting locations such as this one - the underpasses still took the cake in that department - but even by those standards, the Trainyard felt strangely desolate. The faint odor of oil still carried across the yard, though it was less pungent than it had been the last time I’d been here. Most of the tracks towards the edge had noticeable wear and tear - marks that wouldn’t buff out, rusted sidings, and hollow interiors. The most damaged trains were left vacant in far corners, towards the edge of the property, playing up the impression of neglect and disuse.

The impression was dropped around ‘the dividing line’, conveniently marked by a rail line of its own. Beyond the dividing line, the trains were arrayed neatly along well-maintained sidings, and the buildings were less shabby, their windows barred and doors secured. The interior still didn’t pass for clean, but it was still obviously functional, which was more than could be said for the ruined outer sections. The contrast between the two was telling, as if the line separated two worlds, one desolate, the other live and flickering with possibility. And here I was, by the dividing line, caught between the past and the future.

“You finally made it,” came a voice from across the trainyard, dragging my mind out of my thoughts.

To my left was the remains of a particularly large train, one big enough that the first work party assigned here had given up on moving it out of the way, even though its presence rendered most of the track unusable. This train had been cannibalised like the rest, and unusable lumps and bars of discarded steel were scattered haphazardly around the vehicle’s carcass.

Atop one pile of twisted metal rested a heavy wooden square, forming a makeshift table - ‘our picnic table,’ as Jes jokingly referred to it. She was sitting there now, on the far side of the table, shaded by the skeletal vehicle. A half-smile played across her face, and she was idly winding a lock of hair around her finger.

“Hey, Jes,” I said, ducking into the shade next to her.

“We met close by here, didn’t we?” she asked, her tone light. “For the first time, I mean,” she added, as she released one curl and began twirling another. The motion was familiar, and disarming in its casual grace.

“Yeah,” I said, quietly. “I remember.”

“It’s almost symbolic, you know? Us being back here,” and she glanced around, “feels like something’s coming full circle. Like it’s time for a new beginning.”

“Feels like it.” I looked over to her. “Everything’s in order?”

“Yep. It’s a one-way trip, the manifest’s been written, confirmed and settled with all the necessary parties. The Bookkeeper’s signed for it, too - I took it by Dagger Lane, after you passed through.

We meet back here, after sundown. Train departs at 9 - we get on it, ride it all the way to Castelia. One of the boss’ agents will meet us as soon as we get off - a man named Will, apparently we’ll know him when we see him.”

“So that’s that,” I said. Another item marked off the list.

“So, how’re you feeling?”

“As well as can be expected,” I said, quickly. “Been thinking about this all morning, and I keep coming back to the sheer number of things that could go wrong here.”

“A lot of things could go wrong,” she responded. “That doesn’t mean they have to.”

The echoed words hit their mark. “Yeah, I know. Just…” I sighed. “There’s a lot riding on me, isn’t there?”

She didn’t respond to that. Probably for the best. I shrugged, and continued on. “This is just...well, I’m running this show more or less on my own, which would be nice if I had any idea of what I’m supposed to do to succeed.”

“Well,” said Jes, slowly, her face impassive, “if anything comes up, we can always just make it up as we go along.”

I snorted, and suddenly it felt a lot less tense. “That is always an option, yes.”

“Yeah, and it’s worked so well for us so far,” she pointed out. “Look at the Darrigans.”

“All I can remember about dealing with them is how we almost died. Repeatedly,” I said. “But I suppose you have a point. This whole business feels like shooting in the dark, especially with…” I trail off, realising I’d forgotten to fill Jes in earlier. She still didn’t know the real reason why we were heading to Castelia.

“With what?” she asks, her violet eyes suddenly boring into me. “With what, Albert?”

I rubbed the back of my head. “Sorry. I figured it was need-to-know only, when I was talking to you last night. Plus, I wasn’t certain you were coming when I was telling you.”

She looked away for a second. “Albert,” she said, quietly. “We don’t keep secrets from each other, do we?”

“It’s not my secret to keep,” I replied, melancholy, “not that there’s that much to reveal, anyways.”

“So if there’s not that much you know, no harm in spilling it, right?” She nudged me with her free hand, as if she was prompting me.

I sighed. Then I filled her in, keeping my answers as vague as possible, skipping over the ominous feeling of wrongness the Velos had given me. That didn’t seem important, at least not now...and honestly, some things I’d rather just forget for as long as I could.

Her eyes glinted as she looked up at me, and I could see the puzzle pieces moving in her head. “I’m not sure what it could be. I’ve seen people infusing metal, wood, fabric with magic for all sorts of purposes - make it stronger, lighter, whatever. Technically, infusing a liquid would be possible...but to what end? Maybe it could work as a fuel, or something that a watercrafter like you could use as a weapon, but still…”

“It’s not the latter,” I responded, giving voice to one of the more disquieting details of the Velos. “I couldn’t sense the Velos. It was definitely a liquid, but I couldn’t feel it, couldn’t control it. My power didn’t apply to it at all.

“You couldn’t control it? Interesting,” she said. “But I still don’t know what the Bookkeeper wants it for. It must be really powerful for him to stake this much on it.”

“We can figure that out later,” I said. “After we find it. I’m assuming Mr. Juniper’s people know where to start looking.”

“And if they don’t?” she asked.

“Then we’ll just have to make it up as we go along.”

She snorts. “Very funny, Al.”

“Hey, if you have a better option, I’m all ears.”

She sighed, leaning forwards onto the table. “No, you’re probably right. We don’t know enough about what we’re working with, and until we have all the answers our hands will be tied. Let’s get to Castelia, and start trying to fill some of the blanks in, before we get to the plan.”

“And for all we know, establishing ourselves in Castelia comes before looking for the Velos.” I noticed Jes’ quizzical look, and started to explain, “You know, the higher up you move, the more doors open for you. Maybe we have to get noticed first, if we want the right people to come to us.”

“Maybe,” responded Jes, and then she laughed, a short, nervous sound. “God, this really is hard, isn’t it?”

“And now you know how I feel,” I remarked, leaning back.

“Yeah, I guess. Who’ve we got with us?”

“I talked Kenta into it. Phil said maybe, but I think he’ll say yes.”

She whistles. “Good picks...wait, is that everyone? Is there still space on the team?”

“Yeah, they were the only two crazy enough to agree,” I sighed. “I might try to pick someone else up, if I have the time...but I’m happy with the group as is. Plus we’ll have the boss’ agents in Castelia to back us up if we need it.”

“Oh, okay! That sounds good, yeah,” she said, as she glanced away, putting my senses on high alert. Her voice was too cheery, her eyes moving too quickly, for it to be a reassurance.

“Jes,” I said slowly, “what’re you not telling me?”

She refused to meet my eyes. “I, uh, I might have, invited someone else. To our team. Without telling you.”

“Is that all?” I asked, a little bewildered. When she nodded, I shrugged. “I mean, I’d have preferred to check, but I’m pretty sure that I’d approve it anyways. Who is it?”

She refused to meet my eyes. “It’s the kid. Sam. He, uh, he wanted to tag along, and I said OK.”

Oh.

This was unexpected.

“You recruited the kid?” I took a second to slow down and work out what I wanted to say. “Look, Jes, I love you, but I can’t afford to drag a total rookie around Castelia. I’m not a chaperone.”

“He’s actually fairly talented, you know,” she said, as if that meant something.

“You show me a talented fire elemental and I’ll show you a kid dead before his time,” I shot back. “Maybe he’d be good support - maybe. But I don’t see how we can bring him up to speed in time for-”

“Look,” she said, raising a hand. “Al, I know you have high standards, but I talked with him, gave him a short trial, and I think he’s worth recruiting. If you really don’t want him coming with, then you can tell him that yourself, and I’ll accept it. But I think you could use him, and it’s not like we’re running short on room.”

I stared off into the distance, mulling the question for a second. As much as I hated to admit it, 4 people was too few to constitute an effective team, and I didn’t have the time or the inclination to go try and rustle up anyone else. And Jes wouldn’t have asked him if she hadn’t thought that he could provide something - and I wasn’t about to stop trusting her judgement now.

“Alright,” I sighed. “He stays. But he’s gotta earn his keep - I can’t be running the search and looking after him at the same time.”

Her relief was evident. “Great,” she said. “So is that everything?”

“Not entirely,” I said, snagging the paper from in front of her. “I’ve got to visit the Dreamyard. Apparently, someone made a laundry list of supplies for us to pack, and someone else has to see that it’s all made ready before we get going.”

“Does it have to be someone else?” she asked. “I could cover that too, it’s no worry.”

“Jes. It’s fine, I can deal with it. You head back, check our marching orders one last time, and then gather the crew.”

“Alright,” and she finally looked up at me. “Anything else that needs doing?”

“No, I don’t think so.” I shrugged. “I’ll just take our preparations and take your word that it’s all going to work out just fine. Even though I’ve been doing that way too much lately.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” she said, back to her usual flippancy.

“Well, so far it hasn’t been,” I said. I rose from the table, turning away. “I’ll see you back at the apartment?” I asked over my shoulder.

In response came a sudden rush of air from behind me, a single, impossibly heavy burst that sent dust into the air and drew a stunned rattle from the train behind us. I staggered, recovered my balance, and turned around to see Jes lifting off. A pair of crystalline butterfly wings had unfolded from her back, and they beat faster than my eyes could follow, each flap carrying her higher into the air.

“Yeah!” she called, as she flew by overhead. “See you there.”

“Showoff,” I muttered, trying to bite back my smile. But I waved to her as she flitted away, and I watched as she disappeared into the distance, before shaking my head and turning on my own way.  
\--------------------------------------------  
The Dreamyard had once been a factory. It still was, as a matter of fact, but now it had the distinction of being a magical factory (the only one I knew of, though doubtless the big city gangs had set up something like this). Here, mechanical expertise and the tools of the past were fused with magical power and the knowledge of the future, to create whatever materials we might need - armor and weapons, reinforced building materials, energy sources, all came out of the storehouses within. The Dice had started out here, and though its headquarters had moved out, the material assets here were still the backbone of the gang’s strength.

Inside, past the checkpoints and the large steel doors, it was a whirl of activity. Machinery whirred and growled above, carrying parts from one end of the factory to the other, while below the Dice’s employees and mages swarmed like drones. And towards the back of the building, a stocky man with a red handlebar mustache was yelling at a small group of attendants.

“Needed these cables prepared yesterday!” he barked at one of the attendants, as I walked within hearing range. The steelthreader started to stammer out an apology, but was cut off by a barked appellation. “Oh, never mind, just hop to it and have it done by tonight. Do it well and I might decide to leave this off your file.”

“Scaring them straight?” I asked, as I stepped closer.

“More or less,” he remarked as he turned to me. “A little pinch returns a long mile. What brings you through here, Albert?”

“Business, Qarl,” I responded, reaching out to shake hands. His grip was firm, with the appropriate amount of exuberance. “I’ve got a list of supplies that I need requisitioned by the end of the night.”

“This for Dagger Lane?” he asked, an idly pointed question.

“No, it’s for an excursion. Something big, and important,” and I thumb the sheet out of my pocket. “Here you go. Boss’ already signed for it all.”

He glanced at the sheet, and let out a low whistle. “Well then. Someone’s not skimping on this excursion.”

“‘Be prepared for everything, and nothing shall catch you by surprise,’” I quoted.

“That is true,” he said, “although you’re spending quite a bit on preparation. This doesn’t come cheap, you know.”

“Yeah, but I’m not ungrateful for it,” I said, honestly. “I tend to wing things too much, and being prepared like this is never a bad thing.”

“True,” he responds, running his finger down the list. “Most of this, we can get from the warehouses, but the pyrocord, that’ll have to be freshly cast if you want to move it. And I’m not sure where the steelthreaders will find the time to work on that.”

“Try yelling at them,” I suggested, “see how many miles that gets you. It can’t hurt.”

He laughed. “No, I suppose it can’t. You’ll want to put the order down for one of the attendants, right?”

I shrug in response. “Sure.”

Qarl whistles, and a figure breaks away from one of the walls and moves towards us. “Hey there, Theo,” I call. The man - or kid, really, he’s younger than me - looks up as he approaches. Sweat stains his tattered shirt.

“Al,” he says. I stare at him pointedly for a second before he relents. “Fine, Albert. What brings you here?”

“Stuff,” I said. “I’ll need you to take a list - oh, and pass the word along, we need some freshly cast pyrocord.”

The kid scowled, and looks over at Qarl, who stared back at him. “Fun,” he muttered, thumbing his penknife out of his belt, and looking up at me. “Go,” he said, and I began rattling off items.

As Qarl turned his head back to his workers, the earth rumbled behind Theo, pushing up a block of granite that came to his waist. The kid shifted backwards until he sat up on top of it, without missing a beat in his writing. “So that’ll be all, Albert?” he asked as I finished, a little subdued.

A thought struck me.

“It might be,” I said. “You looking for a change of scenery, by any chance?”

“I might be,” he responded, eyeing me.

“Willing to head out of town for that change?” The kid looked up, and I shrugged, glancing around before continuing. “I’m leading a...let’s call it an excursion, and I’m still a little undermanned. If you want a spot on my team, well, I might be able to find one.”

Theo stared at me for a few seconds before speaking again. “How would I claim this hypothetical spot?”

“If you show up at the Trainyard tonight, I’ll consider that as you wanting it enough. That sound good?”

“Yep.” The kid commented, spinning his knife back into its hiding place, offering his now empty hand to shake. We shook.

“Sweet,” he commented, as he rolled up his paper and strolled away. “Been getting more than a little bored around here. This should be fun.”

I turned away, waiting for the sound of the kid’s departing footsteps to fade. Once I was certain he was out of listening range, I turned back to Qarl, who’d returned while we’d been talking. “That fine with you?” I asked him, feeling a shade uncomfortable.

“Look,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to offload the kid. He’s bright, and he keeps track of things, but I always worry that the Yard will shut down because he jammed his knife in a gear, or accidentally upended some machinery with his magic. But he’s my kid. If you wanted him, you could stand to ask me first.”

“I know,” I said, slowly. “It just...happened. I wasn’t lying about being undermanned.”

He sighed, a heavy sound. “Well then. Just try to ask first, next time.”

“Understood,” I said back. “When can I expect the supplies?”

“This evening early enough for you?”

“It should be - I’ll have them couriered to the Trainyard.”

“Pleasure,” I said. We shook hands, his grip just a bit tighter than it had been before, and I turned for the exit, walking a little more quickly than usual.

“You there,” called a voice, from the far end of the building. A white-haired head poked out of one of the offices on my left, pointing a hand in my direction. “You there, Albert Thawne.”

It was the Architect. Nominally the gang’s second-in-command, the administrator of this facility. I’d heard of him, seen him once or twice on errands, but I’d never interacted with him before. And now he wanted to talk to me.

I looked back over my shoulder, searching for a hint of support or advice from the Dreamyard’s other denizens. Qarl only shrugged at me, as if to say ‘You’re on your own.’ After what I’d done with Theo, I didn’t have a reason to expect his help, even if he could do anything in this situation.

So I bit the bullet. I turned and I walked over to the office.

The old man disappeared from the doorway as I approached, and as I stepped inside, I saw him standing behind his desk. “Sit, sit,” he said idly, gesturing towards a spacious armchair with his left hand. His right hand glided across his desk, and I caught a glimpse of something black being snapped up and swept out of sight. For a second, I felt a pang of curiosity, but he started speaking before I could act on it.

“I’d heard you were departing. For Castelia, correct?”

My heart skipped a beat.

“Yes,” I said, slowly, taken aback by his knowledge. Clearly, despite his quasi-exile, he was still in on the loop. “I am, but...I’m not quite supposed to talk about it.

“Ah, yes,” chuckled the old man, “‘the Bookkeeper’s orders.’ It still feels strange to hear you younglings calling him that - to me, he’ll always be bright-eyed Cedric Juniper.”

It was hard to imagine the Bookkeeper as ever being bright-eyed, but I nodded nonetheless. He would probably know better than I would.

“He’s mentioned you to me once or twice, did you know?” He spoke mildly, as if asking a question about the weather.

“I didn’t,” I said. “I actually didn’t know that you two talked, considering that...he never really leaves Dagger Lane these days.”

He nodded. “That’s true, but when it comes for advisors and friends, he always makes the time. Especially since this is the best possible arrangement - Cedric needs someone to administer this facility, and frankly, I need a reason to not move out.”

He inclined his head slightly, doubtless meant to give his next words a dramatic flair. “This place, the Dreamyard is...let’s call it a ‘nexus’. A focal point, where paths cross, where power and potential are drawn like moths to a flame. Where the wonders of the past bleed into the future.”

“You’re talking about magic,” I said slowly, unsure of where this was going.

“Not entirely, but for the purposes of this conversation, well, yes. Magic is everywhere, all around us, but there are documentations of places where, in the old myths, its presence was just more potent. Places where it rose up from the earth and empowered its wielders for feats that they would not have been otherwise capable of.

It’s no accident Cedric formed the Dice here - he now pretends to dismiss the lore, but I’ve never had a student more dedicated than he was, nor one who focused so heavily on answering history’s many ‘why?’ questions. And though he has moved beyond the Dreamyard, he still sees the value in keeping me here, as well as maintaining a general presence. Here is where my gift is most powerful, and can be wielded to full effect.

But enough about me.” His hand came back up, from behind his desk. A series of shuffling noises came with them, and I saw what he’d been holding - a deck of cards, neatly stacked, which he held lightly in his left hand.

“Mind a game?” asked the old man, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “It’s a tradition, somewhat,” he added, “one of Cedric’s, and I imagine he’d approve, were he here.”

I stared for a second. Then I let myself nod, slowly.

“Blackjack?”

“Sure,” I responded. I knew the rules, vaguely - first to 21 wins, and despite my lack of experience, I figured I could play a single game. “Just one game, though. Not sure that I have the time for anything more.”

“Very well,” he said, as he removed the first card from the stack and sent it sliding towards me. It stopped on the desk’s edge, a moment before he dealt himself the second card.

I picked up my card, a tad cautiously, and turned it face-up. A mustachioed face stared back at me - a Jack, drawn above a silver chalice. This is an old deck, I noted quietly to myself - it had to be, to be using Cups as a suit. The standard deck had Clubs, Spades, Hearts and Diamonds, but every now and then you saw the old collection of suits - Swords, Wands, Cups and Coins - and all the more so nowadays. For some reason, the more ancient-looking decks were coming back into fashion.

The cup sign stood out to me in more ways than one. The symbol had had many meanings over the ages, but the most important one was its elemental counterpart - water. My element. I had a chalice not too different from this one tattooed across my right shoulder, honoring my powers and what they had afforded me, setting me a little apart from the rest of the world.

“Jack counts as ten, right?” I asked, trying to distract myself from my thoughts. The Architect nodded, almost absentmindedly. The card before him was a Five, marked by a backdrop of crossed swords. He discarded the third card, and tossed another my way. I flipped it over into my hand.

Two of Wands. I turned the two around, so that it was right-side up, the wood-coloured backdrop crossing the number’s black lines like some abstract sculpture. I glanced over at the old man’s card - the Four of Coins. Jack and two...that made twelve, by my count. He had a five and a four, totalling nine - so I was closer to 21 than he was. That didn’t mean my victory was guaranteed, or even likely, but I still felt confident with my seeming advantage.

I looked up at the Architect. He seemed unsurprised, serene, as if he’d expected these very hands to be dealt, this exact situation to be playing out. And his calm was unnerving.

Two more cards were dealt, and the third discarded. I took a deep breath before reaching down to pick it up. Eight of Swords - again, this card was upside-down, and I turned it over in my hand, lining it up against the other two in ascending order. Another glance across the desk told me that the Architect had drawn the Seven of Coins.

I was at twenty. “I call,” I said, indicating my desire to sit on my current hand and not draw another card. From twenty, it was too likely that another draw would cost me the game. Now I’d just have to hope that his next draw didn’t hand him the victory.

He smiled, dealt one card to himself, turned it over. It was the King of Wands - which put him well over twenty-one.

“You win,” he said, quietly. I exhaled, my shoulders shedding tension I didn’t know they were carrying.

“Alright,” I said, trying to play down my excitement. It’s just a card game, I told myself, ignoring the niggling feeling in my head that maybe it was something more.

“Your reward,” and the Architect swept the deck away, drawing another one out from underneath his desk.

“Your travel deck?” I asked, a little confused.

He chuckled. “Not quite. Consider this...a reading. You draw one card - from there, Fate, guided by my power, will give me a window into what awaits you.”

The niggling feeling returned with a vengeance. “Can I decline?” I asked, mostly out of curiosity.

“You could,” he admitted, “but from what Cedric has told me, I wouldn’t expect you to pass up on a view of what lies ahead.”

“Alright then,” I said, straightening up in my seat.

The old man grinned, fanning out the cards in front of me. They were nice cards, their backs a velvety red surrounded by a solid gold border, done in a style that looked a few centuries out of date but was still artistic enough to be appreciable.

I reached out, snagging the seventh card from the left. I met his eyes for a second, looking for the trick - I saw none, and so I tugged the card free.

Something told me that this card was unique, in more ways than one. The card’s background was a characterless, empty black, and at its center was a single stark image, stencilled in dull white. A barren skull, faced sideways, away from the card’s holder and into the endless void. The shadowed hollow behind the skull’s left eye, the almost bleached colour of the skull - it was surreal how accurate to life the image seemed, and how unnerving it had become in the rendering.

“The Stranger,” commented the old man, “also known as Death.”

I swallowed. “What does it mean?”

“What does death mean?” The old man laughed, then continued, a little more seriously. “It represents change. Death is simply the most overt example of a change - in one sweep of the scythe, you go from life to...whatever awaits after life. 

But rarely does this sign correspond to actual death. Change doesn’t have to be that extreme - though this card usually only corresponds to extreme changes, something irrevocable. Perhaps your situation qualifies as such.”

“It probably does,” I conceded, making to hand the card back to him. I felt a little bitter - the card hadn’t told me anything I didn’t already know, and I sensed that prying any more out of the Architect would be difficult.

He waved it away. “Keep it, young one. A marker like that one, it may serve you well along your journey. An anchor, a reminder, something you can cling to when all else fails you.”

I stopped for a second, looking back at the card. I didn’t see any harm in hanging on to it...and if it had any power I could tap, I might as well hold on to it, in lieu of the reading itself.

“Good fortune, Albert Thawne.”

“Good fortune to you too,” I responded, grateful for the instinctive courtesy. It did something to mask my uneasiness.

I stepped out the doorway, and walked away, slipping the card into my coat pocket. I slipped through the Dreamyard’s doors just as smoothly, silent as a ghost - and ghostlike I drifted away from the Dice’s factory, my steps a little lighter, as though I’d been unmoored from the earth to drift wherever I would.  
\--------------------------------------------  
A cold wind swept through the trainyard. The skeletal trains creaked in the breeze, their whispering adding a macabre feel to the night air.

Sam shivered and wrapped his borrowed coat tighter around himself. I spared a glance for the kid, and sighed. I should probably find something less combat-intensive for him in Castelia - maybe let him run errands, and gradually ease him into the Dice’s business, rather than throw him in at the deep end and expect him to swim.

I didn’t expect any concerns from the rest of my team, though. Kenta stood tall, his eyes alert and flicking across the trainyard, looking for any sign of trouble. Theo sat on a small slab of granite, idly sharpening his knife with a bored expression. Phil leaned against an old ticket booth further away, drumming his fingers on the battered wood. And Jes was seated next to me at a table on the station’s old platform, attentively watching the rest of the group.

There was one more person with us - Garvey, another of the Bookkeeper’s advisers, who was there to pass on some mission-critical information and see us off. We were gathered on the far side of the Trainyard, next to our vehicle - one of the three armored trains that the Dice possessed.

The train’s doors opened. An attendant in a grey shirt stepped out, and made a beckoning gesture with his hand, before stepping away to the front.

“Are you prepared?” asked Garvey, as he watched the group file onboard.

“Hopefully,” I responded, glancing over my shoulder at them.

“Very well,” he said, sliding a heavy file across the table towards me. “Mr Juniper compiled this, and it should have everything you need.”

“Thank you,” I responded, picking up the file and eyeing it for a second. Looking back to him as I rose, I said, “We’ll contact Dagger Lane as soon as we arrive.”

“I’ll let Mr Juniper know to expect your call. Good fortune, Albert.”

“Good fortune. We’ll do our best,” I told Garvey as I hopped aboard. He gave me a short nod and disappeared into the shadows.

I felt a short, sudden start beneath my feet, a lurch that signalled the train shifting into motion. The wind picked up and snapped at my face, and jacket, causing hair and fabric to fly wildly. I stayed in the doorway, grabbing the side rail and holding on as the train accelerated. It was only once we were past the outer fence that I turned around and headed into the cabin.

The group had settled themselves into the interior - Jes glanced up from her spot close to the exit to meet my eyes and give me a slight nod. Phil and Theo were chatting further down the car, Sam had settled into the aisle across from them, and at the far end (the front, technically), Kenta leaned against the door, his eyes closed.

Here we were. 6 of us, definitely on the young side (Phil, the oldest of us, was barely nineteen), but competent and brimming with potential. I'd worked with most of them before, and I had what i felt was a decent estimate of how best to integrate Theo and Sam's abilities and get the most out of them. This wasn’t the best possible team, but I could make it work.

“Alright,” I said, prompting them to look up at me.

“So you guys know that we’re heading to Castelia. We’ll be there in a few hours - by sunrise at the latest - and then we’ll be on mission.” I paused for a second, thinking about how best to phrase the next part. “We’re not going to Castelia for our vacation time - we have a job to do. Several jobs, in fact.

We don’t know what exactly these jobs will demand from us, or what we’ll be facing along the way. But I picked you guys for a reason, and I have faith that you can rise to the challenge.” Phil whistled at that, and I sighed. There went my momentum.

So I decided to bring it to a graceful close. “Well, that’s about all I have to say. Get some rest, everyone. We arrive early, and we hit the ground running.”

I stepped away before I could see how my remarks were taken. I found my way to the back of the car, and slotted myself into the last aisle, sitting down and leaning back. The seat faced backwards, and past the treetops I could see the familiar lights of Striaton, receding into the distance. They twinkled like stars against the inky night sky.

The lights suddenly blurred, as black spots danced across my vision. I blinked, shook my head a little, and suddenly remembered that I’d been awake and on the move for 36 hours. Now I was feeling the fatigue threading through my bones - and I was seeing it too.

“You alright?” Jes asked, leaning over my chair. Her voice was a little thick, and tinged with concern.

I nodded. “Yeah, m’fine. Just a little sleepy.” I shook my head a little, trying to keep the black spots out of my eyes.

“If you want, I can keep an eye on the crew while you rest for-” and whatever she was going to say next was swallowed by a yawn. I looked over, remembering that she’d been awake and running for the same amount of time that I’d been - even though she was handling it better than I was, she would have to be at her limits.

“It’s fine,” I told her, “just, talk to me? If it’s not too much, it might help me stay awake.”

She nodded, and slipped into the seat beside me, her aura flickering a little in the corners of my vision. “We’ll be there in the morning,” she said quietly.

“And then on to wherever the boss’ agents have set up shop,” I finished. “And then we’ll probably be dragged off to a dark room, to pore over notes and find somewhere to start our search.” I chuckled slightly at the mental image.

I felt a sudden pressure on my shoulder - but it was just her, laying her head down. “And we’re finally out,” she said, her words punctuated by another yawn.

"We don't talk about that, right?" I asked, a little wary.

"We don't," Jes agreed, nodding into my arm. "But still - we're leaving, probably for good if this works out. No final words for our hometown?"

I considered that - but not for long. This was my path now, and I couldn’t afford to look back for too long. And more than anything else, it was about moving forwards.

"No final words." I was letting the past die - not killing it, but discarding it, leaving it by the wayside. I didn't need it anymore, honestly - I had my friends, I had my prospects, and now was as good a time as any to try and start over. Maybe this time it'd stick.

For a second, there was no response, and then came a long, heavy drag of air. I glanced over to my left, to see Jes leaning on my shoulder, her aura muted and her eyes shut. I didn’t know when exactly she’d dozed off, but she’d probably missed my statement. Make that definitely, I thought to myself, with a pang of regret.

“Typical,” I sighed. But I shifted a little in my seat anyways, moving gingerly and slowly, until her head rested on my arm (which I figured would be more comfortable than my shoulder). Then I tossed my head back and stared out the window, catching one last glimpse of Striaton before it was swallowed by the cloudy night.

The train rumbled onwards.


	7. Chapter 7

Something was missing.

My eyes fluttered open, and I caught a glimpse of the cabin’s white ceiling, a stark, shining contrast to the darkness outside. I blinked and shook my head, easing gently out of my seat and placing one hand on the rim to steady myself.

It was a pointless gesture - the train had stopped. I felt it in the stillness, the ease with which I’d risen, and the lack of the weight pulling me back as I walked up the car. But it was still fairly dark outside - nowhere near sunrise, so we couldn’t have stopped in Castelia.

The others were awake too, huddled around the middle of the car, where they’d been last night. “Good to see you up, boss,” said Phil, as I approached. “The train’s stopped,” he added, throwing a glance out the window as he did so.

“Yes, I figured that,” I commented, “but why?”

He shrugged. “Not sure. A man just came through, asking for identification before we could pass. I handed him some of the Bookkeeper’s papers, he said he’d take a look and check back with his bosses. It’s only been a few minutes since he left.”

“Too long,” Kenta rumbled. “Too long.”

“Hate to admit it, but he’s right,” admitted Phil. “This stuff should have been cleared weeks in advance. They should have just waved us through.”

“Yeah,” said Jes, from behind me. Her hair was tousled, but her eyes were bright and filled with thought.

“Power play?” I asked Jes. We’d been told that the Bookkeeper’s allies would ensure our swift passage, but it was always possible that they might not hold up to it. They couldn’t stop us entirely, but it wouldn’t surprise me that they would threaten delay to try and squeeze some answers out of us.

“No,” she muttered, looking out the black window. I could barely. The air began to shimmer around her, as she reached out, feeling for the vibrations, continuing to to muse offhandedly, “that can’t be it, that’s too-”

Her eyes shot wide open and she looked up in sudden fear. “Get down!”

I didn’t think about it - I just hit the floor, landing on one hand and settling into a crouch, my eyes on the windows. The calm lasted for about a second until the steady drumming of submachine guns - several of them - filled the air with dry thunder.

The glass of the windows cracked and splintered under the assault, reduced to nothing in a matter of seconds. The train’s armored sides held up better - though dents showed up here and there, and there was nothing to stop shards of glass from raining down on us. I tucked my face into my chest, felt spinning fragments slice my coat, and one slid past my ear, drawing a pinprick of blood and a surprised wince. And the guns continued to roar, growing louder and louder by the second, until it reached a crescendo and then cut off

I waited until a few seconds after the thunder ended before I motioned to Phil. He nodded, shifted over to the far side of the car, his hand dipping into his jacket.

The shield formed in the ruins of the window an instant before Phil shot up like a jack-in-the-box, and it immediately began to warp as a barrage of bullets pinged against it. Phil’s gun appeared in his hand and he swung it wide of the defensive barrier barrier, snapping a shot off before dropping back down into cover. A scream of pain echoed from outside the car, followed by a string of curses.

“There were five of them with submachine guns. Four now,” muttered Phil. “There’s more behind them - maybe thirty or so, those look like backup.”

So we were outnumbered six-to-one. Joy.

“Why have they stopped shooting?” asked Sam, his voice quavering. He’d huddled beneath his seat, his hands raised, as if to ward away the next attack - as if you could ward away bullets with your hands, or even fire.

“We’re safe, more or less,” responded Jes. Her voice was clear, calm and I could tell she was trying to be reassuring. “Bullets won’t do anything against the train’s armor. They’d just be wasting ammunition.”

“So what comes next?” asked Theo.

“Can’t do the shield trick again, they’ll be expecting that,” I said, running through my options. Could we sneak up to the exit and make our way out the far door? No, they’d be expecting that.

“Albert!” called Jes, as light flashed in the window and something arced inside. I didn’t think, just reformed my shield, condensing it into a bowl-like shape beneath the object’s point of impact. It landed, flared up, and then the water plunged in and smothered it.

“Firebomb,” I muttered. Now that I had a clear view of it, it was easy to identify. “Get ready. Shift and cover both entrances. They’ll have to storm us out.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, what else can they do?” I asked, a little frustrated. “They’ve made too much noise to go unnoticed. That’s their only option - send their backup and take the car before someone else shows up and gets in their way.” I turned away, staying low to the ground, and focused my eyes on the back door. I could hear them moving, outside, nervous whispers and dull footsteps, both drifting closer and closer.

I stared at the space, visualising the shield, running the mental math on how thick it would have to be to take a sustained barrage of bullets. From across the car - from my coat’s sleeves, from our packs, from the cooling pipes, a steady flow of water trickled, settling into a circular cloud around me. It drifted just below the line of the chairs, the stream floating in a slow lazy orbit around me, only visible as a faint distortion in the gloom.

Boots sounded against metal, and they stormed into the car’s entrance, weapons drawn.

My barrier formed, a split instant before the triggermen opened fire. Bullets pinged off the surface for a few seconds, then one of them pocketed his gun and lobbed a fireball over the shield. I extended my reach, and water snaked upwards, snagging the fireball like I’d snagged the firebomb earlier. And I extinguished it just as easily.

Guns clicked and registered empty. As the firing slowed down and then ceased altogether, I took my opportunity, sending a barrage of droplets down the aisle before they could switch to magical attacks. They had no shield, no defensive constructs of their own, and the liquid pellets ripped through them. Many of the triggermen staggered backwards, clutching wounds, and three or four of them wouldn’t be getting up again.

Jes crouched behind me, and a sonic wave erupted throughout the tight space, setting my ears to ringing, and shattering what little glass had survived the bullets. Several of our assailants stumbled backwards, hands dropping bullets and revolvers to clutch at ruptured eardrums. Several more collapsed right then and there.

But the losses barely seemed to register with them. Purple energy suddenly flickered through the air around them, a silent ward, potent enough that I didn’t risk throwing out another barrage. The surviving triggermen discarded their empty weapons, and bursts of fire, electricity, and white energy crackled in their hands, slamming into my shield one after another. Their shots lacked raw power, but their focus and co-ordination - as well as the sheer weight of magical energy - more than compensated for it. I could feel each impact now, and it took a little more effort to reform the liquid barrier after every shot. And they showed no signs of letting up.

“We aren’t in a good position here, Jes,” I said.

“I can see that,” she responded, grimly. She’d been throwing out stray bursts of psychic energy, enough to keep them off-kilter and disrupt their rhythm. But her next shot was aimed to kill - a burst of compressed air seared through the prismatic barrier and a triggerman standing behind it, leaving a gaping hole in his chest.

He fell backwards, and was immediately replaced by another mage, who fired a fresh bolt of lightning at us in retaliation. It sizzled with menace as it struck my shield, and a slight wince escaped me as I tapped deeper into my reserves, putting all my focus into keeping the transparent disc formed and stable. It held. Barely.

I chanced a look backwards - Kenta had dislodged one of the armored panels from the train’s interior, and was covering Phil, who took potshots from around it at the mass of triggermen. Theo was crouching behind some of the seats, an empty revolver lying discarded at his feet. His knife was drawn and a snarl spread across him. As I watched, Sam stepped out from behind and lobbed a fireball over Kenta, that splashed against the opening and sent tongues of fire streaking upwards. When the light faded, though, the gunmen seemed no worse for wear.

We couldn’t keep our defense up forever. Hell, I’d be surprised if Phil still had ammunition to cover the far end of the car, and there was no way I could keep up my shield for more than two minutes longer against the onslaught. We were hemmed in on both ends of the train car, so trying to cut our way out would involve going through one crowd of mages and hoping the other didn’t take us out from behind. That was a clear no-go.

If defense and escape were impossible, and outright victory out of the question, then all that left...we needed to throw them off somehow. If there wasn’t a window, we’d have to create one.

“Theo!” I called, wincing as another barrage pounded into my shield. Jes shifted half a step forwards and her wings flapped once, the sonic wave disrupting the onslaught. She’d bought me a few seconds. I glanced back, locking eyes with the youth, and asked him, “Can you quake the car?”

His eyes widened, ever so slightly. “I could do it, but Albert, there’s no-”

I’d heard what I needed to hear. “Do it on my count. Push it towards the station, that’ll scatter this crowd, and we can get out the back.”

“Are you sure?” asked Jes, glancing at the open windows, no doubt thinking how we’d be an easy target if we were forced to climb out. 

“Well,” I growled, pain shooting through my arms as the watery disc began to wobble under the onslaught, “We don’t have time to think of something else. Go.” I’d noticed the flaws in my plan too...but there was no way around them. We’d just have to move fast.

A second passed, and then a sudden, violent force struck from beneath, wrenched the train sideways. We’d known it was coming, had enough warning to grab handles, chairs. It wasn’t a lot, but it saved us from being tossed sideways and out the train car. The triggermen weren’t so lucky - they were sent sprawling, sliding out the still-open doors and crunching into the platform’s cold tarmac.

I exhaled, and let my shield dissipate. Most of the liquid trickled back into the lining of my coat, but a few droplets snaked towards the open window above us. Water coated the glass, a protective layer that would make it easier to crawl out without cutting our hands to ribbons.

“You first, Theo,” I said. He nodded, and purple miasma wrapped around his form. He let go of his handhold, and floated gently up into the air, until he reached the window - where he caught the edge, and swung himself out into the open. Jes nodded, looking a little exhausted, and I motioned to the kid. “Sam, you next.”

Sam was lifted out, then Phil, while Kenta spurned Jes’ support and jumped the distance, landing with a whump on the far side. “You go first,” I told Jes, hanging one-handed from my handhold as I looked down at her. “I’ll be fine climbing out.”

“It’s not as easy as Kenta makes it look, you know,” she commented.

“So? I’ll be fine. Plus, it's ladies first”

She rolled her eyes. “Classic, Al.” But her wings materialised anyways - and then she grabbed me around the waist, giving me no chance to protest before we both lifted into the air. We shot past the glass, arcing low as we cleared the train (I clipped my injured ear on the way past, and had to swallow a cry of pain), and then she deposited me on the ground. 

“Still in one piece?” she asked, as I straightened up. I sighed in response, shook myself off, and stepped towards the far side of the train car.

The surviving triggermen had regrouped in the station’s shadow, fifteen or twenty of them, looking the worse for wear after our firefight. Bruises and burns were common, many of them had been hit during the firefight, and a few had broken bones from the train crashing down on them. Still, they were here, and they outnumbered us by three to one. This wouldn’t be easy.

“Ready for round two?” I growled, the shield expanding to its full size, large enough to cover all of us. It would probably take the first barrage, giving us a window to counterattack - and since there was no way I could block a second barrage, we’d have to make our attack count.

The triggermen stared us down for a second, energy flaring in their eyes and crackling in their hands. Then one of them made a short wave, they tensed...and they scattered, withdrawing into the station, shadows and morning fog swirling in their wake.

For half a second I was tempted to follow them, then I dismissed the idea. We’d been lucky to get out of the fight, and there was no point in taking chances. I let my shield drop, and leaned against the fallen train car. “That was fortunate,” I muttered.

“You sure they’re gone, boss?” asked Phil.

“After dragging out that fight, most likely,” I responded. “They can’t beat us and then dodge whoever comes running, and they figure that it’s not worth losing the fifteen or twenty triggermen they have left to maybe snag the six of us. So they’re cutting their losses.”

Jes popped into my peripheral vision, flitting over from the front of the train. “Driver’s down!” she called, making a short, chopping motion with her left hand. I’d guessed that was the case, and yet...damn. We were stuck here.

“Fantastic,” I sighed. I waved to Phil and Kenta. “Check the station, see if there’s anything lying around that might give us a clue. Take the kid with you - he might be able to give you a little light.”

“Are you sure about this?” asked Jes, as the others retreated from earshot. “The longer we stay here, the more likely it is that someone comes looking, and maybe catches us. Why are we risking that?”

“Why’d they attack us, Jes?” I asked, quietly.

“Don’t answer a question with a-”

“Why would they attack us, actually - that’s a better line of questioning. I doubt this was the boss’ allies - if they wanted us dead, they’d have been a lot more subtle about it. Plus, they wouldn’t send forty triggermen when they could send more.”

“What’s your-” but I waved, cutting Jes off.

“But they knew we’d be here - else why go to the trouble of setting up forty triggermen? They’re not locals - no local would risk this much for a dodgy reward, so its a third party from out of town. And why would a third party want us dead? What do we have that makes them want us out of the picture?” I leaned back again, exhausted. That had been a lot of breath - not to mention the unpleasant picture it had formed.

“You think this is related to our...quarry?” she asked, slowly, sounding as unsettled as I was.

“Maybe,” I sighed. “But we don’t know enough to be sure - we don’t know enough about this in general. Let’s see what we can find out about this before we pull up stakes.”

She nodded, then looked up at me. “We do have an alternative way to get to Castelia without the train, right?”

“Of course,” I responded. The Bookkeeper’s backup plans had backup plans, and I’d been told several of them, in case a situation arose. Still, they would probably wait for us, and the risk was worth whatever we could dig up.

Kenta shouted from inside, and I stood up off the car, idly brushing dust off my coat as I walked towards the station. The sky was beginning to lighten, now, and I almost felt bad when I slipped inside and the world became darker, again.

There were two of them, lying inside the old ticket booth. Both wore long red vests, with a stylised A affixed to the left breast - their gang’s insignia, I supposed. The red extended beneath their vests too, into their shirts and it dripped out onto the floor around them. One’s throat had been cleanly slit, the other had multiple gashes in his torso. Even in the dim light, I could see the tiny creases on his knuckles, the faint cragginess to them, indicating that he’d fought back. It hadn’t been enough.

“Well,” I said, to no-one in particular, “I think we found the locals.”

“You think that these were the folks that the boss expected us to meet?” asked Phil, squinting at them through the gloom. Behind him, Sam was standing in the corner, facing the wall, his shoulders were trembling. For a second, I consider chewing him out for not having a light up, but I decide against it.

“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” I responded to Phil. “Third party takes over the station and decides to bushwhack the first group of people who come through, but they make a botch of it.”

He shook his head, a little confused. “But they asked about the Bookkeeper. They knew who we were and where we were going. How could they have known that?”

“And that’s the million dollar question,” I muttered. My worst suspicions had been all but confirmed. I looked back at the guard’s blood-drenched chest, wondering if it held any more uncomfortable answers for me, and vocalised the question. “How did they know?”

“How did they know what?” came a snarl, and the three of us turned around.

From the shadows behind us, a tall figure coalesced, clad in the same red vest that the station’s dead wardens were wearing. He sneered as Phil drew on him. “Shoot me, and my men will storm this building and put you down. They’ve already subdued your compatriots outside - and ending you will be no difficult task.”

For a second, worry coursed through my system - and then my brain provided a counterargument. The figure in red was being confrontational for a reason - because he was angry, angry about what happened to his men, and eager to find someone to account for it. And I wasn't obliged to give it to him.

“What do you want to know?” I asked, calmly, motioning with my free hand for the others to stand down. A stray thought inside me winces - it's ‘what would you like to know?’, not what I'd said, but I can't take it back now.

He sneered. “Two of my people are dead - and you four are standing over the bodies. I think that's all I need to know.”

Not that I could take it back, anyways.

“If you came from the back, you would have seen the knocked-over train car,” I commented lightly. His gaze narrowed, but he nodded slowly. “That was ours.”

“You're the Dice people.” He said this calmly, seemingly unsurprised. “And here's how it probably went down - the guards asked you to stop for a few minutes, and rather than comply, you decided that our guards’ lives were worth less than a few minutes delay.” His voice was icily judgemental.

“And instead of going on our way, we decided to tip over our own train car, and then settled down to wait for the rest of you to show up, thereby invalidating the effort we put into not being delayed.” I finished his statement for him.

“Well, what do you want us to believe?” said the figure. “And that's not a rhetorical question either - you'd best start talking now.”

I fought back the urge to cast a net of liquid strands around him and then slice him into bloody ribbons. “We were accosted here by a full complement of armed magicians, almost forty of them, that set upon killing us. Since they were here when we arrived, I'd guess that they were responsible for what happened your men. We left a bunch of them lying around the car - if you want to send some of your living men over there now, they'll probably confirm that for you.”

The figure glared at me. “Maybe that's true. But that's not enough for us.”

“Let me guess,” I asked, feeling a trace of sarcasm. “If we'd been fortunate enough to meet your guards while they were still alive, what would have happened?” I paused for breath, then asked, “They'd have stopped us like the triggermen did, but they would’ve been nicer about it?”

The shadowy figure growled, and around him the darkness seemed to gather - and then he shrugged, the sudden shift a little jarring. “Most likely. If you’d answered our questions truthfully, we would have allowed you to go on your way eventually.”

I tilted my head. “Well, we’ve already answered all the questions you’ve wanted. I'm not sure what reason you would have to detain us, now.”

“Our people are dead,” he responded, the ice back in his voice, “and that is the only reason we need.” Darkness spooled behind him, and then it spread towards us, crossing the open air in a few seconds. Water spooled from my sleeves in retaliation, forming a web around the shadowcaster, but the darkness reached my face first-

And then there was nothing, nothing but blind empty quiet.

\------------

When I woke, something felt different again - but instead of something missing, it was something new, drifting around the edges of my consciousness. I opened my eyes, trying to get a fix on the strange feeling - and the black still encompassed my vision. I raised my hands to my face, found black cloth there, and the sudden panic faded. It was just a blindfold, and there were no other restraints I could feel.

It could be worse.

“Albert?” asked Jes, from ahead of me, slightly to my left. I turned my head in her direction - it occurred to me that she'd probably be blindfolded as well, but her magic meant that that wouldn't be such an impediment to her.

“Hi,” I said, and winced at how exhausted-sounding my voice was. “Everyone here?”

“Me,” said Phil. “Kenta's next to me, but I think he's meditating. Or something - he’s been quiet the whole time.”

“I'm here,” finished Theo. “Sam's in the far corner - he hasn't talked much either, but I didn’t take him for the meditation type.”

Belatedly I remembered that Jes and Theo had been caught outside the station, and a twinge of guilt ran through me for letting that happen. “Everyone alright?” I asked, hoping that my fears wouldn’t be realised.

“Broken arm, broken collarbone, lost hearing in my left ear and I think I rolled my ankle,” answered Theo. “The last part of that was true.”

Jes snorted. “Maybe if you hadn’t tried jumping the platform, you would’ve saved your ankle.” She stopped, and then said. “I’m fine, Albert, more or less. The others seem alright too - they all just got hit by that shadowcaster’s stuff, so unless that’s poisonous or something, we should all be okay.”

“Let’s hope not,” I muttered. “So they knock us out, put us in...wherever this is. Now what?”

“They're deciding what to do with us, I think,” Jes said. “Not sure what they're favoring, but I don't think it'll be that bad.”

“And they've got us waiting here in the meanwhile,” Theo commented.

“Eh,” said Phil, a little spark back in his voice. “Could be worse.”

I sighed. It would probably have been better if we'd just fought our way out of the station - but I hadn't been as fast as I'd been throwing the shield up yesterday, and that weakness had cost us all.

I tried to avoid the thought, cast my mind elsewhere, and I suddenly felt the strange sensation again, pressing against the edges of my consciousness. It was distant, from my impressions of it, but old and powerful nonetheless.

So I threw my magic out at it.

I’d lived most of my life around Striaton Canal, experienced the raw force of all that churning water, felt the strength it generated. The reservoir that appeared before my senses dwarfed it, its sheer magnetic force overriding the distance between us, until it rose, dark and mighty and larger-than-life in my minds eye. And I could feel it almost reaching back to me, responding to the tug of my power.

“Hmmmmm,” I said.

“What is it?” asked Jes, her voice pitched low to avoid attracting attention. No reason to assume that someone wasn't listening in, after all.

“I can sense water - a lot of water,” I said, keeping my voice low as well. My eyes are still closed, but I’m certain about it. It’s not an ocean - doesn’t feel like one - but I’m not sure what else this could be.

“Storm drains,” muttered Phil. I rolled my head over in his direction, heard a sudden flutter of wind, and then he elaborated, “Castelia had sewers first, but Nacrene copied their layout, set up their own storm drains.”

“Interesting,” I muttered, thinking a little. I’d been relieved of my coat, and the liquid stored in the lining of its sleeves was out of my reach...but that amount was a raindrop compared to what the storm sewers contained.

“Albert,” said Phil. “I’d appreciate anything you could do, but I don’t know if you’ll be able to reach the storm drains. They’re buried deep. Really deep.”

“Let’s see how deep,” I said, gritting my teeth. I gathered my will, focusing on the stormy darkness, extending my senses and my power to their limit. I felt something down there shift in response to my call, as it reached back to me. It pulled upwards against gravity, rising steadily...and then it stopped halfway. I ignored the stinging sensation in my forehead and called again, more insistently this time.

The waters stayed where they were, deep beneath the earth, holding the line as if in a game of tug-of-war. I mustered my will, preparing to call again, but my concentration gave out, crumpling under the sheer effort of what I’d just attempted.

The rising tides stopped halfway, and I felt them turning back, receding to the depths. My head pounded like a drum, and when I reached out again, in a last-ditch effort, I heard a scream from behind my eyes, silencing my power. This was beyond me.

“Can’t,” I spit out, “can’t do it.” I release my hold, feel the rhythm of the underground waves resume, leaning my head back to anchor myself against the sudden vertigo. “Sorry, guys,” I said. “I guess I can’t pull off the dramatic rescue.”

It was crushing in more than one way. I'd known my powers had limits, and I wasn't in the best shape...but still, seeing those limitations manifest in such a stark failure hurt. It hurt more than I’d thought it would.

“So what do we do now?” Sam asked, nervousness gripping his voice.

“Well,” I shrugged, “I guess we meet their leader, and try to talk our way out of this.”

“How?” asked Jes, and despite being blindfolded I could feel her eyes on me. “What’s our gameplan?”

“Simple. We apologise for what happened to their people, tell them the boss will compensate them, offer them any help they want in finding the attackers - and they tried to kill us, so we should be trying to track them down - and then ask if we can go on our way.”

“You assume that these red-vested men will be amenable to our goals.” said Kenta, his voice a low rumble.

“No, but I assume that they not going to risk getting in their way. It’s like the shadowcaster says - if they stop us outright, try to off us, then their partnership with the Dice turns into a war. That’s not a fight they should be taking lightly.” Saying that made me feel a little better, reminding me that even here, far from home, I still have some protection.

“Doesn’t mean they won’t take it,” Jes commented. “People do stupid things sometimes.”

“True,” added Phil. “And they’ll be angry too. The only people worse than making decisions than angry people are drunk.”

I bite back the mean-spirited retort that comes to mind. Then I blink, despite the blindfold - because ordinarily, I wouldn’t have even considered playing that card against Phil. Maybe I’m a little more tired, a little more worn-out than I realise - and with that thought, comes the worry that I might not be up to getting us all out of this mess.

“Well,” I responded, the tiredness now doing something for my tone, “we can always hope.” I shrug a little, and I can hear the bitterness in my tone when I speak again. “Not like there's anything better that we can do.”

For a second, silence settled, and then I heard a sudden motion to my left. A breeze whirled through the room, ruffling my hair, and Jes murmured under her breath, “They're here.”

And from behind her, I heard a door creak open.


	8. Chapter 8

“You're lucky,” said the voice at the door. It was the shadowcaster who'd accosted us - and he sounded even angrier now. “Boss wants to hear you out herself.”

I didn't respond. No need to, anyways - we'd gotten the outcome we'd wanted and there was no reason to rub it in.

“Let's go,” he said, as I felt rough hands grasp my arms, pulling me to my feet. I straightened up, walking in step with the enforcers on either side of me. I noted that the one on the right had a longer stride and felt like he was reaching down (meaning he'd be taller than his partner on the left), and that the one on the left was missing a finger. His grip will be looser - grab him, spin him low, throw him into his partner. Then once I’m free I’ll-

Another step forwards, and a sudden breeze tickled my face, joined by warm and refreshing autumn sunlight. I blinked, despite the blindfold, and turned my face upwards to face the sun.

I heard one of the red vests growl, but I ignored it. Should I be calling them red vests? I asked myself silently. I knew the group had a proper name - the Excavators, and it seemed somewhat rude to address them by an informal title.

The Excavators. They’d been founded in Nacrene by an old ‘acquaintance’ of the Bookkeeper’s, Lenora Hawes, which was part of the reason for the closeness of the two groups, and they controlled most of the south end of the city, around the warehouse districts and the museum. They were professional enough, from what I'd heard about them, but they didn't recruit to that high a standard, favouring high manpower over highly competent individuals. That approach did have some merits, I supposed...but it probably explained why the rank-and-file were so eager to pick a fight. The ironclad discipline that I’d taken for granted in the Dice evidently wasn’t in place here.

I racked my brain, trying to remember what the files had said about Lenora Hawes, and whether the Bookkeeper had offered me any valuable advice for dealing with her. Nothing came to mind beyond the basics - apparently she’d been a curator at the museum in the time before The Awakening, and since then she'd founded the Excavators, headquartering them in her old haunts. ‘Stern, imposing, with no patience for fools or miscreants’ was how the Bookkeeper's notes had described her, which didn't tell me a lot.

Still, she sounds like the type to listen to reason, I told myself confidently. Perhaps if I accused her men of jumping to conclusions...no, not showing professional courtesy would definitely be a black mark against us. Best to not sound accusatory.

The winds had picked up, and the temperature had dipped a bit - unpleasant, but it was a reminder that time was still moving, and so were we. I guessed we were probably moving to one of the Excavators’ warehouse holdouts. That would be a nice isolated place, to store us and interrogate us out of sight, and they’d probably have a bunch of measures in place to keep us from escaping.

I felt the cold rise a second before we stepped into the shadows again. And then the men holding my arms stopped walking, pulling me up. A sudden jangling and rattling came from in front of my face, and I struggled to stay still and not flinch at it.

The seconds seemed to drag out as we waited, blind and isolated. Then the shadowcaster’s rough voice speaks again. “Bring them inside.”

The hands grab me again, and I’m dragged forwards. I stumble, and it’s all I can do to keep up, before we stop short.

I wasn’t expecting the blindfold to come off. But it did, and I blinked my eyes repeatedly to adjust to the sudden light streaming in.

We’re not in a mere warehouse. We’re in a large, imposing atrium, whose high ceiling streaks upwards in a long, graceful arch. Glass tiles cover the arch’s inside in elaborate designs, depicting scenes from times long since forgotten. The rest of the building is draped with warm colours - red and golden-brown feature most prominently - and the marble and wood feel solid, reliable, enduring.

It’s rare that you find something so beautiful that’s survived the chaos that followed the Awakening. This place was fortunate - in more ways than one.

“Welcome to our humble abode,” commented one of the red vests, a slight smirk playing across his face.

“Seems very welcoming,” I responded, hoping I sounded sincere.

“And you can count yourself lucky that it is welcoming,” added the shadowcaster. “You’re getting the ‘honored guest’ treatment, for now at least.”

He shrugs, then steps ahead, motioning us to follow. The red vests shift until they’re standing in a rough circle around us, a wall between us and their headquarters, enough to dissuade us from trying anything.

“Hey,” called Jes, her eyes distant.

“What?” barked the shadowcaster, clearly impatient.

“Why's that window open?” she asked, offhandedly. “That one, up there,” she added, pointing over her shoulder. I followed her movement, and there, above a high arch to the door's right, was an open window, yawning wide and open to the air.

She would have read the air currents, sensing the draft and its origin point, to work out where the open window was. But what I didn't understand was why she’d pointed it out. Is this just a ruse, and is she hoping we catch on quickly enough, I asked myself, and I felt myself tense involuntarily at the thought. I’d prefer to wait, but if she saw an opportunity...

If it was a ruse, the redvests’ captain wasn't having any of it. He looked at the open window for a second, like he was filing it away in his memory so that he could chew someone out over it later. “Come on,” he spat, after that second had passed. The ring of red vests tightened a little, the group closing in, as if to drive the point home.

But Jes didn't follow the rest of us - she stopped, turned around, and I turned with her on instinct, watching the ceiling. Something whistled, high above us, and I tensed, thinking she was about to make her move.

And then a firebomb sailed through the open window, landing right in front of the group of triggermen.

Flames burst free from the glass shell, splashed against the ground and shot outwards. Two of the red-vested enforcers were licked by the fiery tongues, and they stumbled backwards, screaming in pain as they collapsed to the ground.

“Close the door!” the shadowcaster growled. Darkness coalesced and pooled around him in a dense cloud, its toxic stench gag-inducing despite the distance. I bit the inside of my cheek, and tensed, waiting for him to unleash it-

And a pair of bullets sailed through the open door, scattering the shadows and flinging the mage to the ground. A pair of fresh, gaping holes marked his shirt, and he gasped in pain as crimson fluid poured from the bullet wounds, his heart evicting his lifeblood and finishing what the gunshots had started.

The surviving enforcers cursed, drawing weapons and returning fire through the doorway - which none of them moved to bar. I stepped in the other direction, keeping the open door between us and the bullets, and motioning the others to follow me. Another firebomb arced over our heads, landing cleanly between the enforcers and us.

“Go!” I barked, turning around. We had a window to escape, and we had to take it. Guns sang behind us, but none of them seemed to hit us. They're probably not shooting at us anyhow, I thought, but still, running with an occasional zig-zag didn't hurt.

It wasn't until we'd rounded a couple of corridors and found ourselves in an unused side chamber that I called a halt.

“Change of plans,” I said, after they'd had a few seconds to settle down and breathe. “We're getting out of here, and we're doing it now.”

“What about the red vests?” asked Jes, from the chamber's entrance, which she'd fallen back to cover. covered the corridor. “Weren't we going to try and talk our way out of this one?”

“That was before-” I winced, shook my head, “That was when we didn't think we could just walk away. Now we can - and we just have to hope that they’re too busy fending off the triggermen to try following us.”

“And what about the triggermen?” Phil asked. “Somehow, I don't think they're going to let us walk away like last time.”

“We hope that they're too busy attacking the red-vests to intercept us.” I sighed, then continued, “If we see anyone, we avoid if possible, take them out quickly and quietly if not. If we stay low and move fast, then we can probably get clear of the redvests’ patrols before they start hunting us.”

“And then?” asked Theo.

Jes answered. “The boss has some property in town, places where we can lie low - and Albert knows where they are and how to get in. We can hide out for a few days, get in contact with Striaton, and work out how to get ourselves to Castelia without any enforcers coming after us.”

“We'll worry about that once we've gotten out, though,” I added, trying to bring us back to the here-and-now. “So let's focus on doing that. Kenta, take the lead, let us know if you see anything. Theo, with him, see if you can't do anything to cover us with the stone in the walls. Phil, hang back until we can find you another gun - if you see anything, shout. Jes, behind us, cover our backs. Sam, just...stay with me, shout if you see anything. Come on.”

We moved carefully through the deserted hallways, taking turns blind and navigating as best we could. It was slow going, made worse by the occasional wrong turns, and the need to drop and cover whenever we heard a squad racing by. We’d stiffen and flatten ourselves to the walls, hardly daring to breathe, and only when Jes confirmed that they had left did we start moving again.

But we avoid any trouble - any imminent trouble, anyways. As we go, I can start to smell a burning tinge in the air, and I see a hint of grey at the corners of my vision. I do what I can to gather stray wisps of water vapour, augmenting my own capabilities in the fight at the cost of making the air worse. It isn’t long before the grey mist saturates the hallways, and we’re struggling to not cough on it.

The triggermen must really like their firebombs.

But it’s only once we emerge near a large doorway that we’re finally spotted. Two of the red vests are standing sentinel in a far alcove, and they waste no time in jumping to the assault before we can knock them out. I sigh, wasting no time in stepping forwards and deploying my shield as I do so. It catches the first few bullets and allows the others to come up under cover. It catches the first few bullets, but only one of the red vests is shooting - the other crouches in the alcove's shadow, his fist squeezed tightly shut.

One of the red vests kept shooting at us, and the other ducked back into the alcove's shadow, his fist squeezed tightly shut.

I don't even see the attack. One moment, I was tightening my shield, stepping out to face the red vests - the next, I was leaning against the inside wall, blinking spots out of my eyes, and shaking my head from the ringing. Some sort of concussive blast had left a hole in the wall behind me, sending plaster and stone chips raining down on us.

“What was that?” Phil asked, as he ducked away from the debris. He seemed just as disoriented as I was - the others seemed better off, having been further back when it hit.

“No idea,” I called back. “Jes, can you stop him from throwing another of those blasts at us?”

“Will do,” she responded, stepping out of the hallway, covered by my shield. She closed her eyes, and the air began to hum with magic.

The red vest holding the gun grimaced as his weapon stopped firing, and when it began to crumple he dropped it like a hot potato. The other red vest - the one who'd slung the blast - abandoned his cover and rushed us, moving faster than I'd thought possible.

I heard a swoosh, a knife spun from behind me, and plunked straight into the red vest, stopping him cold. His partner stood up, seemingly rattled, and was about to raise a cry when my sphere caught him in the temple. It struck with a dull thud, and he collapsed to the floor.

“Is he an enhanced?” asked Phil, staring at the fallen red vest, referencing the colloquial term for those whose magic just made them stronger and faster, like Kenta. When in response, the figure began to stir, his side wound already scabbing over, he spoke again, “But how...how did he conjure up that blast?”

“No idea,” I responded, stepping over and kicking the man in the ribs. That finished the job, and he slumped and passed out. He should be fine, in the long run - Theo’s knife hadn’t hit anything vital, or gone deep enough to be a threat to him, and if he was an enhanced, his healing factor would see to the injury in a few days.

I actually had something of a guess, but it wasn't worth mentioning at the moment. Some in the Dice had hypothesised that the enhanced had actually developed the ability to harness and manipulate kinetic energy. While the strength and speed could be passed off as a simple application of that magic, it wouldn't surprise me if some of them had learned to channel the kinetic energy into one of those destructive bursts. It would be taxing on the user, and require a certain degree of mastery to control it, but...well, the hole in the wall was proof of how potent it could be.

It was an interesting possibility, and now I had proof that it might actually be applicable. Maybe if I survived this, I could afford to ponder it a little more.

I step over to a box beneath the fallen red vests, pull it open - and surprise, there's our gear. “Guys!” I called, suddenly cheery, and their expressions lit up as they saw what I'd found.

“Thought I'd lost this,” commented Phil lightly, as he raised his revolver to the light, while Theo thumbed his spare knives back into various hiding places in his outfit. I shrugged into my coat, its presence and the water within it refreshing, and with a sigh, I release the little water vapour I'd gathered while trekking across the museum. I didn't need it now.

I walked over to the door the red vests had been guarding, and nudged it open with my hand. Phil was right next to me, gun back in his hand, and he swept it in a wide arc as the door opened. No gunshots were directed at us, no energy bursts or firebombs arced to hit us, nobody shouted.

“Clear,” called Phil, as he stepped out into the open.

“Clear,” I echoed, forming a shield in front of my hand as I stepped out. “Come on, guys.”

Theo stepped out, the knife back in his hand, his eyes wary. Jes followed him out, and the air briefly flashed purple as she threw out a psychic pulse. After a second, she nodded, and stepped out into the open. Kenta brought up the rear.

Nobody followed Kenta out.

“Where’s the kid?” I asked the others.

Jes looked at me for a second before doing a double take. Kenta moved back into the building after a few more seconds, scanning the interior. It took a second for him to call in a calm baritone, “He is not here.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” asked Jes.

“Not sure,” I frowned, trying to think about it. “It had to be before we got to the door...yeah, I remember seeing him then.”

“Maybe the blast knocked him the wrong way,” offered Theo. “Sucks, but it happens. Guess we should get going.”

“Theo!” snapped Jes, looking shocked. The other two didn't seem that moved, though.

“Look, I don't want to leave the kid,” said Phil, “but I don't think we can risk sticking around, either. And ‘sides, I don't think that the red vests will hurt him that bad. He's just a kid. Boss would have their heads if he heard.”

“Phil's got a point,” I commented, trying not to notice Jes’ death glare. “If we get away, they won't be able to touch him without ticking the Bookkeeper off. He'll be fine.”

It was about then that I noticed the crackling coming from the inside. Down the hallway, I saw a faint, reddish glow, and screams carried down to us.

“He's still inside, and the building's burning down,” Jes commented, “Sure he'll be fine?”

“So he’s still inside,” I said, a sinking feeling in my stomach. Fire magicians could create flame, but shielding themselves from it was another matter entirely. There was no way the kid was that good.

The odds that the red vests would hurt or kill him were low, at least as I estimated them. The odds that they'd leave him to be burnt alive? High.

“Look, if it's him or us-”

“Theo, stop.” I said.

He was right. It was him or us. But there was no reason we couldn’t have both - no reason I had to have another death on my hands.

“Look, he can't have gone far,” I said, desperately wanting to believe it (and it should be true). “We should be able to find him and get out.”

“I stand with Albert,” added Kenta, thankfully. “We cannot abandon an ally to a fate such as this.”

“We're not leaving him,” I said, more firmly this time. “Now come on. Quicker we find him, quicker we can get out of this place.”

And before I could convince myself that this was a bad idea, I walked back into the burning museum.


	9. Chapter 9

I pulled a door open, stepping back from a tongue of flame as it scorched the air. “He’s not in here,” I called, slamming the door shut.

“Not in here, either!” Phil stayed by his door, his gun still pointing down the corridor before us. Nothing stirred there but the slight flickering of the flames - the museum is burning in earnest now, and the marks of the fire are beginning to show.

Part of the ceiling cracked and landed next to Kenta, who shook his head a little, seemingly unruffled by his close brush with death. Theo muttered something under his breath as he inched around it, before looking up at me. “Albert, would you mind doing something about the fire before we all burn to death?”

“I’m doing what I can,” I muttered. If there was enough water on hand, then I could have smothered the blaze with a few minutes of concentration, but as it was, the museum would keep on burning. Still, I could do a lot of things to keep us safe. Moisture was beading along the walls, trapping the smoke and keeping it away from our eyes, and any vicious spurts of fire were stifled by a flick of my wrists before they could do serious damage. 

I could keep this up for a while, but it was still important that we find Sam and get out, before something showed up that was beyond my ability to handle. Something like the ceiling falling, for example, or the heat rising high enough to knock us all out.

But we didn’t have to search long. After a few more minutes of searching, Phil called out, his voice edged with something wary, and I responded. He motioned to an abandoned corridor - and there was our missing kid, slumped against the wall, his head turned away and his face in shadow.

“Sam?” I called, stepping inside. He didn’t respond. I stepped closer, and I noticed two things - the unnatural angle at which he lay, and the coating of blood on the left side of his face. My heart skipped a beat, before my rational mind reminded me that he might still be alive.

I dropped to my knees next to him, and saw a deep gouge in the metal panelling behind his head. Something had come across the kid while we’d been separated - and it hadn’t gone well for him. I looked back to Sam, and bent down to take his pulse. It was faint, but it was there.

“It probably looks worse than it is,” I said, trying to be reassuring for the others’ benefit. “Head wounds usually are. I’ll put some pressure on it.”

My sphere formed again and a tendril snaked across the kid’s face. Most of the red dissolved in a few seconds, until only a long scratch across his temple could be seen. It was a livid mark, but it probably wasn’t that deep, or life-threatening. He’d be fine for now, and we could patch him up properly once we’d gotten to ground.

“Kenta, you fine carrying him?” I asked. The big man grimaced, but he nodded. “Alright. Let’s get him out,” I said.

And then something rumbled further inside the museum. It was a deep rolling note, and it sounded strangely alive.

“Is that the fire? That doesn’t sound like the fire,” muttered Theo.

“No,” spoke Kenta, quiet as always. “That’s an animal.” The rumble sounded again, low and menacing.

I looked back to the gouge in the wall. It hadn’t been sliced open by a knife, chipped away by a gunshot or seared through by a bolt of energy. It was a claw mark.

Claw marks. Growls. And this was the middle of the city, nonetheless - no animal of that size could come in here by accident.

Too many bad coincidences had stacked up today - being attacked at the train station, attacked again here, this growling beast...it almost seemed like a planned sequence, the spinning of a web where each strand connected and the spider had its choice of potential paths to take against us.

And we were at the centre of the web, staggering one way and that, trying to find a way out. We couldn’t afford to keep moving forwards blind. So we had to find out about the player behind these moves, and what he wanted - and if we could pin down one of his pieces, maybe that could put us in the right direction.

“Phil,” I said, my voice steady as could be expected, “get Sam out of here. Theo, cover their exit, see if you can keep this place from collapsing on us while you’re at it. Kenta, Jes, with me. We’re going to see what that is.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” he asked, warily. Jes and Theo also glanced at me, but both of them had the good grace to not say anything.

“It’s probably not,” I said, as the growl came again, much closer this time. Whatever it was, there was no doubt that it was unworried by the fire - in fact, it sounded like it wanted to be here.

It might have been here for us. It might have been here for something else. Regardless...it had hurt Sam. So we were going to find out what it wanted and then put it down.

The three of us picked up the trail quickly, following the fresh furrows in the wall and fallen red vests as they led deeper and deeper into the museum. All along our pursuit, we heard another periodic rumble, which became more distinct the closer we got, until I could positively identify it as a growl for myself.

Eventually, we found our way back to the side chamber we'd sheltered in before. A voice came from the neighboring room, low and agitated, but too faint to be heard.

Another growl ripped out, and the voice cut off.

I split from Jes and Kenta, and slipped down the hall as quietly as I could, until I was at the edge of the door. I turned back to Jes - she nodded, confirming that they were inside - and then back to the door, before I peered in.

It seemed like a set of stacks, that stretched across a decent stretch of the museum. In the row that it opened onto, there were stacks stretching ten feet high, I could see several rows, each one piled high with everything from dusty manuscripts to modern, tool-made books. It was disorganised, but the papers themselves seemed well-kept.

And in the center of the row, staring impatiently into the depths of the archive...was a nightclaw. An actual, honest-to-goodness, nightclaw.

I’d only ever heard stories of nightclaws - from the stories from Unova’s past, the ones that couldn’t possibly be real (until they were). Described as a cross between a fox and a person, a nightclaw combined an animal’s athleticism and aptitude for survival with human cunning and killing instincts, and what’s more, they were rumored to have a potent magic that allowed them to conceal their presence until they were ready to strike. The legends said that some of them had been caught by magic-wielding humans - and those that were became the hunting companions of kings, retaining their intelligence and ferocity while nonetheless violently loyal to their human masters. The idea of such a savage and yet breakable creature sounded like it was from a fairy tale, or at least an embellishment - it was something that seemed so much like childish wish fulfillment that even now, it was hard to believe in.

But the nightclaw I saw lived up to the stories and then some. It was tall - easily taller than me - and it stood on its hind legs alone, its figure was lean and impossibly sleek, and muscle rippled in its limbs, as it stood, tense. Its fur was a midnight black, so dark and empty it seemed almost like an absence of colour, and it was accented by blood-red highlights in its mane, a dark ugly shade that made me think of blood and war. The nightclaw was exotic in the same way a tiger was exotic - it was foreign, majestic and menacing, all in one.

It had its back to the door, watching a far corner of the room - a series of shelves from the look of things.

“Here,” came a man’s voice, from behind the fox, “here's what you wanted. Only Lenora and I knew it was here, and I don't know how you found out about it-”

The nightclaw let out a warning growl as it turned around. The man seemed to take the hint, and shut himself up, meekly offering up a sheet of worn yellow paper marked with fading black letters. The nightclaw placed a paw on it, and stared at the script, as if inspecting it.

I stepped closer to the door, my sphere forming above my hand. The nightclaw didn't seem to notice me. For a second, I considered signalling the man somehow, but dismissed the idea after a second. His white coat and diminutive figure suggested he was more scholar than fighter, and he was clearly terrified out of his mind. He’d be no use here.

The nightclaw completed its inspection of the script and handed it back to the white-coated man. It took him a second or two to realise he was supposed to take it, and he held it gingerly, in one hand. “Can I go now?” pleaded the researcher. “I gave you what you wanted...please?” There was desperation written across his face, his eyes danced around the room, and he practically quivered in place as he looked up into the predator’s eyes.

In response, the nightclaw swung a paw at him, almost lazily, cutting through that white coat and the flesh beneath it like tissue paper. The researcher collapsed to the floor, a pool of red spreading around him, and the manuscript fluttered from his hands to rest on the ground. Quickly, the creature leaned down, snagging the parchment off the ground before the bloodstain could reach it.

“Now,” I said, stepping out from behind the wall. Purple miasma coalesced around the fox, and the air solidified around it, holding the nightclaw in place becoming solid and holding it in place. The sphere glimmered, and a barrage of droplets, like the one I'd fired at the triggermen on the train, shot towards the nightclaw. It was an old trick that Jes and I had become fond of - she’d use her telekinesis, set up targets for me, and I’d hit them with armor-piercing shots until they dropped.

The bipedal fox growled, the edges of its form blurring with darkness, and then, impossibly, it shook free of the magical cage, sliding to the left faster than I could track it. My instincts kicked in, redirecting the droplets into a tight cluster that caught the black shape in its torso and shoulder as it moved - not a kill shot, but one that would still do damage. The fox staggered under the blows, but only for a second. Then it was back on its feet, seemingly unharmed.

This didn’t make sense. I’d used accelerated droplets to punch holes in concrete before, and I’d seen Jes hold a moving car still with her magic - and yet this anthropomorphic demon was standing there, with no marks on its fur, showing no signs that our assault had even registered with it. As if to punctuate its contempt for us, the nightclaw relaxed from its crouch, straightening up, and it fixed me with its gaze. Its eyes were midnight-black, darker than its fur, darker than the shadows that swirled menacingly around it, and for a second I thought I glimpsed oblivion in that unforgiving look.

“That was unwise,” it purred. ‘Very unwise.”

Then it moved.

The shield formed at a thought, a barrier of crystal-clear water to cover us from its charge. Rather than adjust course, the nightclaw raised one claw, a casual swipe that sliced cleanly through my shield without any apparent effort. With another thought, I reshaped the two shimmering hemispheres into daggers, and directed the liquid blades to strike the creature’s neck. They slammed into their target but failed to penetrate its fur or do any lasting damage. Jes fired a burst of air, trying to back me up, but as before the nightclaw just fell back a step and rose unharmed.

Kenta lunged from between us, moving faster than I could follow - and his first strike hit home, slamming into the nightclaw’s muzzle and sending it reeling. It staggered and recovered, its slice lightning fast - Kenta ducked away, avoiding the claws, but the follow-up strike caught him in the midsection and sent him sliding back past me.

This was not going according to plan.

“Fall back,” I barked, throwing an arm out to keep Jes behind me, and keeping my shield formed between me and the nightclaw - two layers of protection, two lines of defense, which should be able to slow it down. The beast reared up a little, studying me, waiting for the trick - and I heard the other two backing up behind me.

I followed them, backing into the doorway, waiting until I heard their footsteps withdraw before I started firing droplets again. I aimed my shots at the ceiling this time - chunks of concrete rained down and peppered the floor, and when the nightclaw looked up to find my target, I took the opportunity to dive out of the room. I raced down the hallway, picked the third door on my right, and ducked inside.

I stifled the urge to breathe deeply, and cast my eyes towards the doorway. From the hall beyond came an eerie scraping noise, whose screechy trill lasted a few seconds before cutting off. “Where have you gone, little watercrafter?” asked the nightclaw, its voice high and mocking. I didn't answer it.

A glimmer of light came from the window behind me. Jes was there, hanging to the wall, her eyes wide. She opened her mouth to say something-

And I sliced my hand at my throat, shaking my head. The nightclaw didn't know where we were, and that was about our only advantage. No use squandering it.

She nodded. ”Kenta’s upstairs,” she mouthed.

The screeching noise came again. She flinched at it - I think I did too.

“Come out, come out,” called the nightclaw, its hind paws clicking on the stone. Then the clicking stopped, and through the wall, I heard a long, deep exhalation. Then a slight, smug sounding intake of breath.

It didn’t say it, but it had to know where we were now.

I cast my senses outwards, trying to see if there was any more water I could draw upon. In the ceiling above, I found a few streams of rushing water, that coursed into a wall and flowed down and away. Plumbing - I might be able to tap it in an emergency, but I’d have to shatter the pipes, and that would risk bringing the building down on us.

Wait.

Bringing the building down. That might not be such a bad idea - maybe that would work where our initial attacks had failed. At worst, we’d be able to bury it long enough to actually get away.

I heard the nightclaw stepping into the room to my left, heard it stalk closer to the wall between us. It would come at me in a few seconds. I could cut and run - jump out the window, relying on Jes to catch me and then get out of here.

But I didn't. If there was something that could work, I had to try it. I locked eyes with Jes, pointed upwards, mimed a chop. “Tell Kenta,” I mouthed. Her eyes widened, but she nodded.

I’d committed to this plan, and now there was no time to try anything else. Either this worked or we died. No other way this went down.

It stood right on the other side of the wall now. I tensed.

Concrete cracked behind me, spraying off of the wall in chunks. I rounded to face it and swung my hand, and a prismatic dagger coalesced out of water vapour and drove through the newly formed gap, straight into the nightclaw’s eye. It yowled in pain, and I caught a flash of dark grey staining its muzzle as it stepped back-

And then it reared up again, its unmarked face pressed to the hole, staring bloody murder at me. “Stop that,” it snarled, and its claw gripped my shoulder, sudden pain setting fire to my nerves. I tried to twist free, but to no avail, and then the nightclaw tossed me right into the opposite wall, face first. Spasms of pain shot through my system as my head, then my shoulder and back slammed into the concrete - nothing felt broken, thankfully, but everything hurt.

I rolled over just in time to see the nightclaw tearing through the rest of the wall, walking through the torn concrete to face me. Its claws were unsheathed, its form shimmered and blurred and it had that merciless look in its eyes again.

“Jes, Kenta!” I yelled, and purple miasma materialised around the fox’s limbs again, preventing it from moving. It snarled, and I saw it tensing, gathering strength to break free - and that was when Kenta dropped the ceiling on it.

It only took a single strike from him - that and my magic, drawing the power of the water to soften the structure. Water gouted from shattered pipes, and my power guided it, gathering the falling stone and bringing the most matter possible down onto the nightclaw’s head. Within a second, it was consumed by the falling debris, its howl lost beneath the crashing concrete. The shield formed in front of me, protecting me from any errant shrapnel.

I sighed, stepping backwards towards the door to survey the demolition. The shield dropped, allowing me to see the room as it was - littered with a dozen heavy chunks of crushed concrete, filled by a dust cloud that turned my vision white and dragged a tired cough from my throat. But there was no sign that the vicious predator could have survived the impacts, nor being buried alive.

It was dead. It was done. It was over.

And then one of the larger blocks shifted, then rolled towards the hole in the wall, revealing a battered-but-still intact nightclaw beneath it.

“Stop that,” it spat, sounding thoroughly frustrated. “Stop-stop trying things!” Dark grey lines raced along its fur and its skin, and within a few seconds it looked the same as it had when the fight had opened - well, except for the fact that now it was positively angry.

And I’d just played my last card, to no avail. Not for the first time, I considered that this might not end well for me.

I stepped back out into the hallway, a new shield floating in front of me - my steps were slow, measured, wary, and I was just waiting for the nightclaw to lunge at me. The creature circled just as warily, its claws tearing part of the doorway as it came through. This stalemate wouldn't last long - it was probably just gathering strength, and waiting to see what other tricks I had to play.

I had one trick left, technically - not a fancy one, and I didn't think it would be effective. But it might give me a window to shake him, or maybe take advantage of his weakness. And not using it would turn this whole affair into a half measure on my end.

Half measures wouldn’t be enough anymore.

So I shot the sphere at him, all of it, holding nothing back. It arced slightly as it travelled, and I guided it a little to the left, accounting for the nightclaw’s tendency to dodge that way. It stuck to form, and the liquid globe clipped its skull as it shot by, sending off a deep, resounding note that thrummed through the enclosed corridor.

I took advantage of the nightclaw’s sudden distraction, how the impact had turned its head to the side, and reached into my coat, drawing my spare revolver. I wasn’t as good a shot as Phil, but I could hit a target or a moving body when I had to. And the nightclaw was maybe ten feet away, close enough that I could see the slight concavity in its chest, a lonely memento of our earlier attack, silhouetted like a target.

It would do.

I focused on the target, and let the old instincts take over. I took a breath, in and out, and as the nightclaw turned back to me, I fired. Took a half-second to absorb the recoil and recover my stance, then I fired again. Both shots hit their target, each one driving the battered creature a step backwards. I inhaled once more, stared down the barrel, and shot.

A beat passed. Then something viscous dripped from the nightclaw’s chest, staining its black fur with sludge-grey. It looked up at me, its eyes glimmering with sudden fear. I had hurt it. Maybe even killed it. Three times for luck, after all.

A quiet howl ripped through my heart, sending tremors through my fingers and echoing in my ears. It was a sound of triumph, hard-earned victory - and all that was left was claiming it.

I raised my gun once more, aiming at the center of the grey blotch. Then I squeezed the trigger.

The nightclaw blurred into motion, and the bullet scraped its shoulder before shooting off into the distance - but rather than rush me, the fox-like creature turned and raced back down the hallway, back the way it had come. It was running.

My sphere reformed as I raced down the hallway, tracking the nightclaw with my eyes, as it ducked back into the researcher's room. There was only one way into that room, and only one way out. And this time, I was ready, ready to bring the whole museum down on this thing if I had to-

I stepped into the doorway, and no angry retort greeted me. The room was empty - and the nightclaw was gone.

I cursed, stepping outside, watching the corridor - and no signs of movement there either. My eyes went to the window, and nothing stirred amidst the burning rubble there.

Wait. Across the street, there was a dim flash of lime-green at one corner, which vanished as quickly as it came. It wasn't the nightclaw, couldn't have been, but it had to have meant something.

For a moment, the chase beckoned - and then sudden exhaustion flooded my system. The adrenaline faded away, reminding me that my reserves were out and I wasn't in shape for a rematch, or even continuing the battle.

The museum was still burning - and the fire was spreading to the surrounding buildings, the flames stretching higher and further with every second. I saw flashes of movement in the distance, small moving shapes, and occasionally the crack of a gun pierces the roar of the flames. While we were dealing with the nightclaw, this place had gone to hell. And I was only now realising it - now that it's too late to do anything about it.

“Albert?” asked Jes from behind me. The two of them had come back around - but I kept staring out the window, trying to think of what we should do now.

“It’s gone?” asked Kenta, his voice sounding strangely brittle.

“It's gone,” I agreed.

Kenta stepped towards the window, a strange glint in his eyes. “The hunter does not let the wounded prey escape,” he commented, a new edge in his voice. It worried me - we'd barely scraped through the fight, and now we were risking everything just staying here. And he wanted to go after it?

“It’s not our concern, Kenta,” I said, letting steel enter my voice. “It's not our business. And we don't need to take the risk of hunting it down.”

He doesn’t seem to have heard me - his eyes were fixed out the window, scanning for any discrepancy, any errant smidges of darkness, anything that might signal the nightclaw’s presence.

“Kenta,” I barked. “We're leaving, now.”

He glared at me, muttered a short “as you wish,” and stormed away down the corridor.

Flames burst from the library where the researcher had been killed. Nothing would remain of his body, or the files the nightclaw had been perusing. “No way of knowing what it came for now,” I commented.

“What?”

“Never mind,” I sighed. I walked over to the wall - the far wall, away from the fire - and leaned my head against it, trying to ignore the sudden pounding. The headache faded a little, giving way to a dozen newer aches that coursed through my shoulders, my ribcage, my arm that was still sore from being thrown into a wall. The hurts hammered at me, percussive, concussive, and it was all I could do to stay standing.

“You all right?” asked Jes, looking strangely at me.

“I’m fine,” I said, waving her off. But I clung to the wall anyways, using it to hold myself up. Walking away seemed dangerous, now that the corridor was choked with dust and smoke, which had grown denser and denser until they were almost opaque. The heat from the fires was rising too, and my wounds burned all the hotter.

Somewhere when fighting the nightclaw, I’d forgotten to keep up the smaller hydrokinetic routines up, and hold off the fires in our area. And from the looks of things, any attempt to hold them back now would be futile.

I’d been awake for thirty-six hours straight the previous day, scraped through two big fights today, and I’d taken a bunch of hard knocks to boot. I’d probably be lucky to reform my sphere without getting a nosebleed. My head pounded, my ribs ached, and my tired consciousness screamed at me to just lie down for a little, and forget the world, just let things be for a while.

I felt myself begin to droop, leaning a little further deeper into the wall. Then Jes grabbed my arm, and I felt a tiny updraft in the air around me, enough to keep me from plowing straight into the ground. “Come on, Albert,” she said, softly, quietly coaxing. “What do we do here?”

The question kept my mind awake, and I forced myself to think about it, remember our priorities. Priority one - staying alive, everything else is ultimately secondary. Staying in a burning building isn’t quite conducive to staying alive. Neither is hanging around the edges of a firefight between two small armies.

The thought led me to something a little more familiar, the idea of getting out. There was no shame in cutting your losses, living to fight another day. Hell, if the Bookkeeper were here, he'd have told me to cut my losses and get out with what I have. And we could still do that - I could still do that. I could smooth things over with Kenta later - I’d find other opponents for him, new challenges, and maybe he’d let this slide, or forget about it altogether. 

Focus on staying alive, Albert, I reprimanded myself. Get out first - find the others, find a back door, get to one of the Bookkeeper’s safe houses. The rest would come later.

I pushed myself off of the wall. “We've overstayed our welcome here, I think,” I told Jes. “Now come on. It’s about time we got to leaving.”


	10. Chapter 10

The street we emerged at was thankfully deserted. The sounds of battle had moved south, dying down a little in the process - so we turned northwards, heading up the street. I stepped out onto the next street over and immediately got a revolver shoved into my face.

“Drop the gun, Phil, it's us,” I said, a bit more tersely than usual.

Phil gave me a look, but he pocketed his revolver anyways. “Now what?” he asked.

I looked past him to see Sam and Theo slumped against the wall. “Now, we get moving,” I responded. “Where're the triggermen?”

“Here,” he pointed forwards, down the alleyway, “and there, all around us. They've set a rough perimeter two blocks out, and anyone who tries to breach it gets gunned down. We haven’t tried to run it yet, but I think it wraps all the way around.”

I swore. “Damn. Do you think we could breach it?”

“Maybe, but I wouldn't put money on it. Most of the red vests have left, with their leader - they tore a hole in one of their barricades to the south and got out that way.”

“But the barricades are still up?” I asked. Phil nodded once, his expression grim. “Then they’re here for us. Great.”

“So how’re we getting out of this, Albert?” asked Theo, his voice duller than usual.

“Give me a moment to think about it,” I responded. Nothing was coming to mind right away. Storming a barricade seemed like a no-go, and I didn't think Jes could fly us all out. We couldn’t afford to wait them out either - every second, it became more likely that they would just pull their perimeter in and close the trap on us.

Punch our way into a building and maneuver from there, staying indoors and hoping they don't spot us? Too obvious, they'd be expecting that, and they’d probably have measures in place.

Could we find a tunnel that led out past the barricade? That was doubtful - I didn't know the systems or pathways in Nacrene, and I could easily lead us down a dead end or right into our enemies’ hands.

And beyond that, there was nothing else. Maybe we could try to trick our way past the barricades, but these triggermen seemed like the type to shoot first and ask questions second. Any mistakes or misjudgements there would result in instant death.

Three ideas. And I couldn’t see any good answers within them - just hard paths and a billion ways in which they could go wrong.

“We need a diversion of some sort, I guess,” I said, a little slowly. “Someone hits a barricade, draws their neighbors in, and we cut through the hole they leave behind.”

“How's that going to work?” asked Phil. “Could any one of us, I don’t know, distract enough triggermen to sneak out, without dying immediately?”

“I don’t know,” I responded, desperately trying to rack my brain for an alternative. There had to be some blindspot, some weakness in their defenses that we could exploit-

“I'll do it.”

Jes’ voice surprised us all. “I'll do it. I'll scout around, find a weak spot, then I'll throw up a signal for you guys. You follow the signal, you should have a clear path, and I'll swing around and catch up with you.”

“Jes, you sure?” asked Phil.

“Positive. We need a diversion, something we can keep up, and I can do that."

“Jes-” I started.

“Oh, come on, love, it'll be fine! I’ve got this.”

Theo snickered. I glared at him. “OK, then. You guys mind getting moving?”

It was only once they'd walked away that I turned back to Jes. “‘Love’, Jes, really?” I asked, shaking my head.

She shrugged. “I don't know, I thought it sounded cute and I wanted to try it out. You don't like it?”

“I don't mind,” I said, which was half a lie, but it wasn’t worth thinking about. Dropping my voice a little, I asked her again, “Jes, are you sure about this?”

She looked straight into my eyes. “Well, you and I are the only ones here who could hope to hold off forty or fifty triggermen on their own, and no offense, love, but...you're at your limit. Plus,” and she threw in a sudden, exaggerated sense of concern, “you’re our leader, your life is too precious and important to risk. I mean, whatever would we do if you happened to bite it?”

“Isn’t the job of the leader to undertake all the important, dangerous tasks himself?” I asked, slightly miffed.

She smirked. “Well, I thought the entire point of being a leader was to have someone else to do these things for you.” She snorted. “It's not a great perk, but you did say I'd be getting a chance to get out.”

“I did say that, didn't I?” I commented. “Just, ah- just take care of yourself, okay? Those triggermen look like some rough types.”

“Yeah,” she responded. “Anyways, I’ll meet up with you on the way out. Where're you guys going to be?”

I sighed, then rattled off the address from memory. “I think it’s around the north end of Nacrene. You should be able to find your way - and we should be able to get there before you.”

“Alright,” and then, more quietly, “it’s fine, Albert. I’ll be fine.” She smiled a little too widely, as if she was trying to convince herself - or maybe to convince me. God knows I’m the bigger worrier of the two of us.

“I know,” I said, trying my best to reassure her. And I believed it - Jes had proved she could take care of herself just fine. She was right - she'd be all right. It would all be fine.

“See you there, Al,” she said, as she turns away.

“Stay safe, love,” I called to her. She rolled her eyes, but she didn't turn quickly enough to keep me from seeing her smile. Then her wings unfolded and she skimmed away.

“Alright,” I told the others. “Let's get into position and get ready to move.”

“Hey, Albert, are you and Jes-”

“Not now, Theo,” I muttered. For once, he took the hint.

It was only a few minutes of walking before we'd closed in on the barricades, concealed by the shadows of one of the buildings half a block away. I glanced out, still slightly surprised that they had an actual barricade up - a solid slab of stone a few feet tall, not enough to stop anyone from jumping over it, but it was more than enough to slow any runners down and give the defenders some cover.

We ran over the plan once - when we got the signal, I'd step out, leading the way and throwing out my shield to cover the others, while Phil covered our backs with his gun. Kenta would follow me, then Theo, then Phil, and once we were past the barricade we'd strike northwards as quickly as we could.

In the distance, the wind howled, and there was a sudden rush, a sudden shift in pressure that we all feel. As it faded away, a series of gunshots began to crack, steadily building up to the dry thunder we’d heard at the trainyard. The thrumming sensation built with it - ringing higher and higher, until I could practically feel the air vibrating all around me. It sounded like a perfect storm, too - all it needed was the rain to complete it.

“I think that's our signal,” Phil commented, easing himself up.

“Wait a sec,” I said, placing a hand over his as he reached for his revolver. “Let's wait till these guys pull out.”

So we waited until we saw the four or five triggermen appear behind the barricades, saw them backing away and turning onto a side street, running towards the gunshots. Only once they were gone did I step out of cover, throwing my coat out wide so it billowed behind me, and sprinting forwards for the abandoned barrier.

There's a sudden flash of movement behind the barricades, and I pull up on instinct, throwing my arms out. I go through the familiar mental routine, directing the water to pass out of the tubing in my sleeves and form into the shield. It doesn't happen - something blocks the water before it can flow into open air, and the defensive maneuver is stillborn.

Three triggermen popped up from behind the barricade, and one of them stepped onto the stone platform, gun in hand. It only takes him a second to take aim at me. Stupid, I curse myself, realising how badly wrong this has gone - and how little I can do about it.

I dived to the side, trying to brute-force past the block, but I knew I wouldn't be able to do it before they got their shots off, and at this range I wouldn’t be able to dodge. And judging by the way the triggerman was grinning, he knew it too.

I braced myself to take the bullet.

Then the triggerman stumbled as the barricade beneath him collapsed into the ground. His shot went wild, and I had my respite.

It was Theo, standing behind me. The triggerman stumbling backwards fell to a bullet from Phil, and before the other two could draw on us their own barricade shifted upwards, a sheet of solid stone that blocked their shots. By that point, I'd gotten past the jam, and a barrage of droplets cascaded from my hands, forcing the two gunmen to seek cover behind the stone wall.

Which was all that Kenta needed. He cleared the wall in a single bound, and the sounds of a struggle - yells, meaty blows, and then bodies striking the ground - followed him. A few seconds later, he walked out, clearly unruffled, and headed back to pick up Sam, who was still lying unconscious by the building he’d been left at.

“Anyone else back there?” I asked, shaking my arms out. Kenta responded with a simple shake of his head. As we passed the barricade, I shucked my coat off, turning it around until its open front was facing me.

The valves in my sleeves were built in to the tubing, meant to hold water in the tubes without me having to focus on keeping it in. Or that was why they were set up - now, the leather had been torn and charred around the edges, the combined force warping the valves shut. My mind flashed back to the heat, to the burning pain as my shoulders slammed into the wall, and belatedly I realised I should have checked the damned mechanism after our scrape with the nighclaw. I'd been lucky that it didn't cost me more.

But there was nothing for it now. I drew the water out from my sleeves, condensing it into a sphere, and let it float before me, bobbing gently up and down. Then I wrapped my coat into a bundle and slung it into a bag. It'd take some concentration to keep the sphere together, but it was less likely that the extra exertion would kill me than it was that the loss in reaction time would cost me my life in a firefight. Priorities - I decided them for a reason, and hoped that whatever I just decided turned out to be the correct choice. There was really nothing else I could do.

“Thanks for the assist,” I told Theo. He shrugged. “Alright, let's get a move along.”

It was slow going - we were still paranoid about being ambushed, and so we stuck to the shadows as much as we could, sneaking along, flashing weapons at any flickers of movement. Crossing roads was the worst - we stuck to a routine of cautiously scouting the intersection and only proceeding once we were certain it was clear of traffic, no matter how long we had to wait.

“You certain we're in the clear, Albert?” asked Phil, as we both crouched in the shadows near a road crossing. Theo was already across the road and Kenta was following - the two of us were standing back to back on the far side, covering both directions should anything appear.

“No,” I responded, and left it at that.

There was a little crinkling of cloth behind me, and I heard him take a breath, like he was about to say something...and then a deep, heavy rumble filled the air, like the roar of a dozen cannons firing at once. The air was suddenly charged and reeking of ozone, and back towards the museum, a bolt of lightning split the sky in two. The earth vibrated beneath our feet at its impact.

I turned back in the direction we came, staring in awe. I saw Phil turn in my peripheral vision, heard Kenta and Theo rounding to look back. 

“Jes,” I whispered. She was probably in trouble.

“You sure that's her?” asked Phil, stepping closer.

“Has to be,” I responded, still watching the sky. “I’ll have to head back for her.”

“Albert,” said Phil, slowly, much more carefully than usual, “you know that Jes stayed back to draw the heat off of us. She knew it was risky - and she did it anyways. We have to keep moving and trust her to get out on her own.”

“She knew it was going to be risky,” I responded, “not that someone was going to start throwing lightning at her. There’s no way that’s going to end well for her.”

“And it’ll end well for you?” asked Theo, pointedly. “Whoever’s calling that lightning down isn’t some two-bit henchman. You sure you can do anything against power like that?”

“Albert,” said Phil, still with the same measured tone, “Are you sure that Jes wouldn't want you to cut your losses here?” His words sounded strangely reminiscent of something the Bookkeeper would say...and ordinarily I'd agree with it.

This day hadn't been ordinary, though.

“Maybe she would,” I growled, “but I don’t want to cut my losses. I’ll skate in, get her out, and we’ll both run - there’s no way the triggermen are in any condition to pursue. The two of us could shake them.”

“Albert, there’s a lot of ‘maybes’ you’re banking on, there.” Phil didn't say it unkindly, but there was a clear note of skepticism that hadn't been there before. “Are you sure that the two of you will even make it back?”

“We'll get back,” I said, and all of a sudden I could feel the fiery conviction in my voice again. Suddenly my shoulders hurt less, the weariness faded away, and I could hear the ocean roaring in my ears again. The sound was like a spark, and I felt a sudden rush of power at my fingertips, answering the fire in my heart.

Maybe I wasn't not completely tapped out after all.

“We'll get back,” I repeated. “I find her, we'll get back. You guys just keep your heads down and make it there safe, alright?”

I drew Phil over, forking a scrap of paper out of my bag. I stared at it for a second, committing the address to memory, before passing it over to him. “That's the address. Get there and lay low until Jes and I get back.”

Phil nodded slowly, then turned away, motioning to Theo as he did. Theo mouthed something under his breath - ‘good luck,’ or some variant of it. Kenta lifted his chin a little, still seemingly unwearied by having to carry Sam all this way. Then he turned to join the others.

I hoped that they would be fine - and they should be, all things considered. Assuming that there were no triggermen waiting in ambush further down, they should be able to get to ground safely. Phil knew all the tricks of that trade, and it was unlikely that they’d be found out. 

But that was their problem. And I had my own problems to worry about now.

I moved as quickly as I could - slipping along the sides of buildings, ducking through open roads, always keeping my eyes ahead, looking at the spot where fire and twisting wind marred the horizon. As I went, I threw my senses out and called, gathering all the water I could control and manipulate. The burning building and the dry autumn had seen to much of the moisture, but water came anyways. It came in trickles and spurts, condensing into a cloud like before, dense and heavy enough that I can feel the temperature dropping around me, and I can practically taste the moisture on my tongue, cool and refreshing.

I’d never tried to channel this much water before, and I had to slow down and focus more than usual to keep it together...but the result was worth it. If I made a shield out of this, at twice its normal thickness, it would still be big enough to stop a car cold. I could throw barrages of droplets without worrying about the shield losing density and thickness as a result. Hell, if I wanted, I could throw a wave with this much water and channel the full force of the depths on a smaller scale.

This might just be enough.

I found her behind a decimated car, in the midst of a shattered street - the sole spot of calm in the lashing winds. Bursts of air rocketed this way and that, unpredictable and uncontrolled, tossing whatever they can find like stones. The triggermen kept their heads down, covering behind other cars, in doorways, a handful of them hiding behind a large oil drum - but it did little to cover them from the whirlwind. The sky was tinged light purple, and as I was watching a wave of pink miasma suddenly blanketed the street, forcing the triggermen to break off the onslaught and clutch at their heads for a few seconds. It even affected me a little - my control over the cloud wavered, and only my quick recovery kept all that water from crashing to the ground.

Every now and again, one of the triggermen threw an odd shot in her direction - but none of them had a clear line of fire, and none of them were willing to risk their lives to get one. The results were predictable - but still, it was only a matter of time before one of the triggermen went for it, and only a matter of time before one of them got lucky.

So I took time out of their hands. 

The shield materialised around me - wide enough to cover my side of the street - and I strode forwards into the open, heedless of the sudden shots fired at me. Those ricocheted off of my shield, to no effect, as did the bursts of fire, sonic, electricity and darkness that joined them.

Water joined wind in the assault, until it was a miniature storm laying siege to the triggermen - I flung barrages of hardened raindrops at the attacking lines, and followed up with a series of spinning spheres. The droplets thin the crowd of triggermen, and it's only after a few volleys that I detonate the spheres, unleashing the compressed liquid with explosive force. One more volley, backed by the violent winds as they rose to a crescendo, and the line finally dissipated - the surviving triggermen scrambled backwards to cover, leaving their wounded and their exhausted to fend for themselves.

I threw a small wave at them, just because I could. It was barely a few feet tall, but it hit hard, and several of them were knocked to the ground, failing to rise again. Their sudden fall rattling the rest, and they took the hint, falling back even more quickly.

“You didn't need to give me the assist there, Al,” Jes commented. “I had it under control.”

“Well, I couldn't just leave you here, could I?” I asked.

She smiled. “Touche. Think that we should leave before more of them show up, love?”

“If you'd like to, love,” I commented. The euphoria I was riding manifested itself in the next words I speak, just before I can even think about taking them back. “Wouldn't mind finding us a quieter spot.”

“Sounds fun,” she responded, stepping towards the edge of the car. “You shield, I blast, we both run?”

“Worked for us so far,” I said. The shield formed above the car, a broad but low-hanging arc, enough to cover her from anyone shooting for her from the triggermen’s position. “On three?”

“Just give me a little cover,” she said, as she raised her hands. The wind picked up even more in response, its howl riding in pitch to a silent shriek. “I'll clear them out.”

She stepped out behind the shield, her hands raised, power flashing around her - and then several things happened.

A sudden light shone from above - a glint of metal on one of the rooftops, gone in a flash.

A gunshot rang out - but no impact struck my shield.

And Jes stepped backwards with a hiss, a long bloody stripe running along her face. The winds rose higher in response, and I felt it vibrating in my bones, like I was a plucked string on an instrument, powerless in the hands of her magic.

The second shot came before I could reform my shield, cover the upwards angle. It hit her head-on.

The keening sound began to fade - and the gathering winds stilled, abruptly dying down to nothing. Jes turned towards me, allowing me to see the bloody hole in her torso and the glassy look in her eyes. “Albert,” she said, barely a whisper, and then she fell.

My shield fell with her. I dropped to my knees, just in time to catch her - she was still warm, but barely responsive, and she was fading fast.

“Jes,” I said, “Jes, are you alright?”

“No...hurts...god,” she muttered, staring down at her wound. “Might be...have to go. they're coming...”

“No,” I gasped. I turned upwards, and another volley of drops rocketed out, hopefully enough to keep the triggermen back. I turned back to her, repositioning the sphere, trying to put pressure on her wound. “No. Come on, just stay with me, you'll be alright-”

“Take care...love…” and she stopped speaking. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she slumped back into my arms. She was still breathing - just barely - but she was hurt badly, and fast bleeding out. She could die.

She could die - the thought stunned me. We’d been in dangerous situations before, but we’d always scraped through by a decent margin. Never had one of us been this close to death, and now that it was happening, there was nothing I could do. No healers, no-one else to help, just me, alone in a sea of enemies.

She would die. And I’d probably follow her to the grave.

It felt as if a hush had fallen across the battlefield - maybe one had. I didn't know how long it lasted, how long I crouched there, holding her, silently willing her to come back to me.

It was only when something broke the calm that I came back to myself. As if from a distance, I heard the dim click of a revolver behind me, echoes of sneers and then a more authoritative demand. I couldn't parse the words - they came too slowly, warped by dark echoes and the shadows in my mind smothered them, drowned them out with the roar of blood. And even if I knew what they were saying, I probably wouldn't have listened to them anyways.

Because that little noise was all it took to wake up my brain - that little noise, reminding me that I wasn’t alone and that there was something that I could do. And now the anger was rising in me, faster than I could stop it. They attacked us time and time again, tried to kill us. They hurt Jes - if they were better shots, they would have killed her. They might have killed her anyways.

They hurt Jes. And like hell they won't suffer for that.

I clenched my fist, and reached out with my power, drawing on depths I'd never tapped before. Beneath the earth, I felt the storm drains' flowing currents, more vividly than I had before, felt them shift and surge in response to my call. I ignored the pain, ignored the bone-deep exhaustion, ignored my tired mind telling me that you can’t do this, and I do it. I seized that vast reservoir, binding it with raw anger and willpower, and drew it towards me with all the fury I could muster.

Come, the anger whispered, and it was like a dam had broken in my mind. And the drains burst open.

I’d already seen one magical quake today - Theo’s derailing of the train, a quick and violent example of earth magic. This wasn’t earth magic, and yet it was clearly the more powerful quake. The churning force of the rising water shook the ground back and forth, in a series of violent, unpredictable vibrations, as the pressure mounted. Jagged cracks shot along the concrete, branching this way and that, isolating groups of triggermen and making it harder for them to flee.

The triggermen opposite me staggered, and I used the opportunity to roll out of their way, casting a few ragged wisps of moisture at their eyes as I did so. Those last few reserves had bought me a few seconds to ground myself, and a few seconds was all I needed. Shallow pools had already begun to form within the crevasses along the street, and as I looked up, a geyser fired under one of the triggermen, launching him into the air.

“More,” I whispered to myself, and the water level visibly rose, boosted by a sudden surge of energy. “More,” and liquid clawed its way to the surface, splashing and spreading, turning the shattered street into sludge. “More,” and a wave roared out of the depths, sweeping the triggermen backwards like a scythe clearing chaff.

I stood, a vortex of water rising like a curtain around me. Gunshots cracked, barely audible over the roar of the water, and they pinged off of the shield with no effect.

I raised one hand, and a similar curtain obscured Jes’ body, carrying it past the triggermen and away. I wrapped the cocoon of water tight over her torso, hoping it'd do something, lower her body temperature and stop the blood from flowing...and then I quietly shut her out of my mind. I needed all my focus to bind the water, to wield it to full effect, and worrying about her wouldn’t do anything for me. I closed my eyes and let the rage take over.

The anger had cooled a little now, and its whisper was icy cold and vicious. It told me that I could kill them all right now, if I wished - I could draw the waters higher, then drag them to the bottom and watch as the life drifted out of them, one tiny bubble at a time until it finally ceased. But that would be too painless, too swift, too easy. There was nothing they could do if I played this smart - and I could afford to play a little.

So I settled for throwing another wave across the street. A line of white froth swept upwards at the speed of thought, and it floored most of the survivors, hitting them before they could react and knocking them down. The waters had risen to knee-length now, and I moved them forcefully, pinning triggermen against walls, sweeping their weapons out of reach, snuffing fireballs out before they could form. The roaring from the depths was now accompanied by agonised screams and the sharp reports of snapping bone.

They feared me - if they didn't already, they would soon. They fear me in the way Jes probably feared as she lapsed into unconsciousness, her life leaving her one drop at a time.

Something in me noted that she would probably be appalled at what I’m doing here - that I’m indulging in casual, pointless violence in her name. The anger coolly took that note and shredded it into little pieces, before reminding me that she’s not here to be appalled, because they hurt her and they need to pay for that. I didn’t need the reminder, but it did lend a little more anger to my next strike.

Another wave shot out of the depths - this one must have been at least 9 feet tall - and more bodies were slammed into walls or collapsed into the depths, more flotsam was cast like throwing knives, and more screams echoed over the waters, rising higher and higher until they were silenced by the rising tide.

There were only a few of them left now. One of the triggermen still stood his ground, firing one-handed as he pointed his head upwards. He puckered his lips up and spat, sending a purple globe arcing through the air above me. On instinct, I raised a tendril of water to catch it, flinging it at another of the standing triggermen with the next motion. He screamed and collapsed backwards into the flood, his death throes sending smoke rising from beneath the water’s surface. That didn’t look pleasant.

I didn’t intend to take chances with that sort of attack. As the acidspitter formed the second globe, another watery tendril snaked out, sweeping his legs from beneath him before he could release his attack. I swung my arm wide, and the water rose beneath him, launching him like a rocket into the warehouse’s wall. More of the sickly fluid - too dark to be blood - dripped from shattered frame, painting the water around him with that diseased colour.

A few were still alive behind me, sheltering near the oil drum I'd seen earlier. Without looking, I waved my hand, and bolts of compressed water shot upwards, piercing torsos and necks and skulls before falling back to earth. The oil drum burst, spilling its remaining contents into the water - several slicks of a dark, glossy colour formed there, intersected by patches of dark red that seeped into the waves below. The mix of colours shone in the afternoon light, and it was almost beautiful how the dark shades danced upon the water's surface.

It was then it happened - they finally broke. Several of them simply dropped their weapons, and with shouts of terror, they sloshed backwards through the knee-high water, their eyes darting behind them, looking only to escape their fate. To escape me.

I smirked - and I felt the cruelty in my smile, the savage triumph. It felt good, and for once, I didn’t try to fight it.

Revenge now. Regret later.

I let them reach the end of the street before sending a wall of water up behind them with a single angry thought. They should have run when they had the chance - now they had to stay and pay the piper. I walked slowly towards them, taking my time - and no shots were directed my way. They were afraid, exhausted, already beaten. Killing them now would have almost been a mercy.

But one of them stepped forwards and faced me, alone, unworried by his lack of support. By the way the others looked at him, he was their leader, and he looked it - he was of a height with me, but he was older, harder, and there was a violent cruelty in his eyes that might have daunted me once. Now, it was only fuel to the fire of my anger.

“You’re powerful,” he said, a note of respect in his voice.

“You’re dead,” I responded. It's the first time I've spoken since Jes passed out, and the seething rage in my voice almost surprised me - it resounded that powerfully, the water lending it force and carrying it outwards like a thunderclap over the ocean. I see the other triggermen stumble backwards in response, pressing up against the wall of water.

But the speaker didn't show any fear. “Am I, now?” he asked, smiling, as if it was a private joke between us.

“You hurt my friend,” I said. “So yes, you’re dead. It’s just a matter of making it happen - would you prefer a broken neck, or do I make it slow and drown you?”

He shrugged. “Your friend was on the wrong side, but you don’t have to be. We’re always looking for powerful mages, and we pay handsomely for their loyalty.”

“My loyalty’s already claimed,” I responded coldly. “Why should your offer mean anything to me?”

“Nobody’s loyalty is claimed by any but themselves, young one. And what my master would offer to a powerful watercrafter like you...would be enough to draw your interest, at least.” He smiled, waved to the triggermen behind him. “Regardless of what you’ve done so far, you’re still outnumbered. Surrender to us, and you have my word that I will take you to my master, and vouch for you. With his power, you could have all you’d ever wished and more - and you’d have a true purpose to fight for. Join us.”

I let out a laugh, short, derisive, edged with rage and cold fury. “Do you really think I’d throw in with lowlifes like you? I don’t know anything about your employer, aside from the fact that he tried to have me and mine killed. I’d rather sleep in the sewers for a week than speak to that sort of scum.” I paused, took a breath, and said, “No deal.”

“He’ll be disappointed when he hears you’ve rejected him.”

“Well,” I growled, the water beginning to churn around me, “you won’t be the one to tell him. You chose your path when you shot my friend - I hope you enjoy drowning.”

“Suit yourself,” responded the leader, his eyes glittering. Something sparked in his hand, and he spun his fingers in an idle motion, letting a ball of fire grow in his palm. In response, the water wrapped around him, tugging at his sodden pants, and I steadily ramped up the pressure, seeking to drag him down like I’d dragged his henchmen to the bottom. I'd enjoy drowning this one.

But he kept his footing, somehow. “Give your ‘friend’ my best,” he spat, and then he snapped his arm, sending the fiery sphere airborne. I reformed my shield, heavier and thicker than it would usually be, but it was positioned too low to stop the fireball from arcing over my head. I turned my head around to follow its path, watch it sail towards the blackened sea behind me. What was he aiming for?

Then it hit me. The sludge. The fallen grenades. The burst gas barrel. The poison still oozing from the acidspitter’s broken corpse. All of it together...I’d left a powder keg primed behind me, and he’d gone and set it alight.

A barrier of water rose to cover my back, an instant before the street erupted into flame. Fire and smoke swept above me, and the impacts caused my shield to shudder and warp, until it was all I could do to keep it raised. The detonations continued, joined by the screeching of metal and the hissing of rising smoke and the whoosh of flying objects. I thought I heard a laugh behind me, but the flames stretched around me, swallowing the sound, leaving me alone in my circle. 

The heat kept rising, stifling my senses and turning my defenses to steam. And I felt so tired - too tired to draw more water from the depths, to try and push outward against the encircling flame, too tired to do anything but think about how I’d failed myself, and failed the others. Too tired to do anything but hold on, and wait for my defenses to fail.

My shield disintegrated, and I didn’t move to reform it. Tongues of fire shot in from all directions, reaching for my flesh, finding ready targets. For a second, I was grateful for the crackling of the flames - without them, I might have heard myself scream. Without them, I would have felt myself fall, crumpling like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

The water took me. Wrapped around me, drew me down, away from the fire and the pain. But there was no strength, no reassurance in it - I was too drained, my emotions too raw, to stay conscious, or draw any healing from my element. Darkness loomed behind my eyes, offering oblivion and a retreat from the pain - and I welcomed its embrace.

Jes, I thought, one last time, seeing her face in my mind’s eye, as beautiful as she’d been before they’d shot her down. I hoped against hope that she was alright, that some miracle had spared her life, spared her the cost of my failure. I hoped that she would be fine without me.

Then I blacked out.


	11. Chapter 11

Hey there,” came a voice from above. Some whim persuaded me to look up in response.

An angel stood on top of the train, leaning over the edge and looking down at me. Her face was soft-featured, framed by locks of shoulder-length black hair. Two prismatic butterfly wings stretched out from her back, shimmering in the evening light. In the purple haze that gathered around her, she seemed strangely delicate and impossibly beautiful.

But looks could be deceiving. That purple aura indicated that she was a powerful magician, one who wasn’t guaranteed to be friendly.

In an instant, a sphere of water had formed above my hand, vibrating dangerously. My control still wasn’t as good as I wanted it to be, but if she was hostile, the orb’s erratic pulsing might do something to warn her off.

“Easy there,” said the girl, as the wind kicked up around us. Her wings folded and retracted behind her back. “I just wanted to say hi.”

“Well, you’ve said it,” I shot back. “Now would you mind flying off and leaving me alone?”

She didn’t. Instead, she stepped over the edge of the train, dropping to land besides me. “Look,” she said quietly, “I came to drop off a message - you’re wanted back at the base. One of the other enforcers is going to give you the rounds and introduce you to your new assignment.”

“Who said I...wait,” I started, surprised. “You’re with the Dice?”

She gave me a dark look. “Well, yes, I am. You think you’re the only magician to run off and mope after being inducted?”

I looked down, feeling suddenly embarrassed. “No,” I said, “just, it was- it was rough.”

For a beat, I expected another caustic comment, telling me I can expect a lot more of that. For that beat, she looked like she was going to deliver it - and then a pained shadow passed over her face.

She didn’t say anything. She just placed a hand on my shoulder, her touch gentle and understanding, telling me all I need to hear without a word spoken.

“Well,” I said, once the moment had run its course, “like you said, I should be getting back.”

“Yeah!” she responded, a bit too chipper, as if she was forcing it. “Yeah,” then, as if she’d just realised a point, “actually, if we’re going to be working together, we might as well know each other’s names. I’m Jes, Jes Thompson.”

“Albert,” I responded. “Albert Thawne.” My last name sounds strangely unfamiliar on my tongue, and I realise I can’t remember the last time I’ve given it out to anyone.

“Nice meeting you, Albert Thawne,” she responded, reaching over with her free hand. Her hand is small and smooth, her gesture graceful. I reached over too, and we shake hands - a little awkwardly, it almost becomes a half-hug from where we’re standing - but the gesture is comforting nonetheless. I think she felt it too, because she smiled a little, a vibrant thing that makes me feel suddenly, inexplicably hopeful in a way I haven't felt for a long time.

Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

\------------

My world is a patchwork of blurry shapes and echoed whispers, washed with scarlet. The pain is here, too - its the only sensation that feels distinct, feels real. My skin is practically aflame - it burns with as intensely as death, and for all my power, I can’t douse the scorching agony. I burn without and within.

Something soft presses against my back. It soothes my screaming nerves ever so slightly.

I'm lying on a bed - I can't remember how I got here - and the bed is moving. Light and dark cycle above my vision, fading in and out, a steady rhythm. The shadows cling to the edges of my vision, and when I try to turn my head everything turns white.

I hear someone scream. It might have been me.

I blink, trying to focus my half sight. Two people stand to either side of me - imposing without meaning to be. I could take them - maybe, if I could see them, if I could move without burning lines of pain cutting me to shreds, if I could think without Jes’ bloodied face flashing in my mind-

Too much. It's too much.

Something breaks the fog, and I tense on instinct - an instinct which my agonised limbs fail to recognise. The pain spikes in response to my movement, and it takes only a second for me to slump back into the bed, defeated. That hurts almost as much as moving, and that still hurts less than another failure.

How could I keep my friends alive, when I can't even get up off the bed?

The shape before me solidifies into a face, solemn and dignified. His voice follows, calm, the counterpoint to the chaos around me. “We can't operate on him like this. Put him under, now.”

Another sharp pain strikes my arm - I twist and cry out - and then the darkness smothers me yet again.

\------------

I lay on red earth, a deep rich red that smelled faintly of rust and cold. The earth's embrace is welcoming, warm and comfortable and all it asked of me is that I would lie down there for a little while longer.

But I resisted it. I dragged my tired body up off the ground, paused before looking around. It’s a vast plateau all around me, a clear, uninterrupted stretch of flat land, imposing in its emptiness. The sun has fallen, and shadows twisted their way across the horizon. It was almost hypnotic how they danced, shifting from one impossible shape to the next, stretching on and on from one end of the sky to the other.

Something mournful echoed across the plains, taking my eyes off of the mesmerising sequence. It's a low note, hollow-sounding, and yet sorrow rang in it deeper than what I thought was possible. The earth stirred in response to the call - shifting and shaking, like it had under the quake I'd called.

Words began to form within the red dirt, in concentric circles that start from me and spread outwards to the horizon. The letters are all raised, and the dirt gives them a strange, blocky quality, that makes the words look like they'd been written in blood. Haunting phrases are scrawled there - I see ‘help me,’ ‘lost in the dark,’ ‘why didn't you save me?’ and- and other things. There was deep pain in those words, and a pervasive sense of loss dominates the narrative - throughout thousands of phrases, thousands of writers, all calling out blindly from the abyss.

And I'm here with them. I'm here, in a place where shadows dance and the dead's call splits the night.

“This isn't real,” I said to myself, because this can't be real because shadows don't claw the sky like that and the dead don't speak and I was lying in a bed somewhere in Nacrene while doctors carve me open and-

And none of that means a thing.

This can't be real, but if I'm seeing it, then it can't not be real, either. But that begs the question - Where am I? What is this? Why am I here? The red earth offered me no answers, and neither did the hollow sky. But if I keep thinking about it, keep looking...I might be able to work it out. I might gain some clue to this strange dimension's true nature.

“Well, the night's still young, Albert,” said a familiar voice.

Something ached in my chest at the sound, a feeling like stitches tearing, a half-healed wound ripped open to bleed anew.

And he's standing there, behind a threadbare, gray-oaked tree, the shadows under his eyes accenting the lines of his face. He's smaller than I'd remembered - funny, the things memory contrives to hide from you - but he still looks down on me as he steps into the light.

Once he's emerged from the tree's shadow, he shook his head a few times, slowly, deliberately. Water dripped from his hair and his neck, dropping to the earth, darkening the soil from rust-red to blood-red. His green eyes glinted with amusement as he regarded me, and that cocky smile that I'd once thought endearing is still on his face.

There was a time when he could have flashed that smile and I would have done anything for him - steal a car, scale a building, follow him on another badly-planned excursion. Even now, even here, I want to just step towards him, take his hands in mine, and ignore the way my stomach turns at the thought of even being near him.

“Long time no see,” he said, sounding as happy to see me as he'd been the day we'd met. “Did you really think I'd gone away?”

“If only I were so lucky,” I responded, hoarsely. I glance up at the night sky. If this is hell, then whatever god there is is clearly up to snuff - he knows exactly how to punish me for what I did.

Kane stepped closer, looking down on me, and he shook his head. Still a couple of inches taller than me, but it no longer felt like a proverbial mile, back as it had when we'd been together. It was more than just his height, though - he was the kind of person that made you feel fortunate to even be around, and a kind word from him had meant more than a week's worth of food.

And he knew the value of that commodity, knew how to offer a few scraps of affection and get someone hooked - I'd seen him do it with the others, Leo and Fer and the rest. But they had been assets - I'd been his partner, his right hand, his confidant, and maybe we could have been something more - god knows I'd wanted us to be. And even he couldn't have been faking the kindness forever - on some level, what he'd said and done had to be genuine, what had happened afterwards some kind of misunderstanding...

“Cat got your tongue, Albert?” he asked. “Or, I don't know, a nightclaw?”

“Don't call me that,” I muttered angrily.

“You think you can live like this, Al?” he continued, ignoring my statement, switching tack as easily as he'd done in life. “I mean, not forever - with your track record, I'd be surprised if you made it a few years - but yeah, even then, could you live with yourself? After all you've done?”

“Don't blame me,” I shot back at him, though I can hear the lack of conviction in my words. “It was your idea to go raid that storehouse, you who brought the knife, you who-”

“And it was you who turned on me when the tide turned against us,” he said.

“You- you did it first, you tried to-”

“‘Tried to,’ but didn't. Not like you did.”

I had no answer.

“So maybe you're not as obtuse as you used to be,” commented Kane. “Maybe now you can recognise the gravity of what you've done.”

“I- I'm sorry,” I choked out. And I meant it.

He regarded me for a second, ignoring the ground shifting at his feet. A new set of characters rises from the earth before him - five characters, and even though I'm seeing it upside-down, I know what it says.

He shakes his head. Then he stomps down, grinding his foot into the earth. He does it again, and again, and again, until the earth's been flattened out, my apology erased.

He might as well have ripped out my heart and stomped on that, too. But I deserved it.

“‘Sorry’ won't bring me back, Al,” he said. “Gotta live with your choices, right? That's what he told you.”

“Wha- What do you mean?”

“You had your choices, and you made them. Now you suffer the consequences. Isn't that how things work?” He rolled his eyes, and then in a perfect imitation of the Bookkeeper's voice, he quoted, “‘those who fail often find themselves punished according to their failure.’”

“I- I haven't failed,” I responded. “I did the best I could, even the Bookkeeper couldn't have done more-”

“No?” he asked, bemused. “You failed your new friends, when you ran off and left them to fend for themselves. Oh, and you failed Jes too - it's your fault she's dead. You're awfully good at killing the people you love, aren't you?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head, refusing to believe it. She can't be dead - I pulled her out of the way, protected her as best I could. She can't be dead. Not her too.

“Who do you think would know that better, Albert? You or me?”

I don't want to answer that question. I've long since realised that this isn't real...but is it him? Some fragment of a shadow of what Kane was in life? My own memory, rising to haunt me? If it's my memory, my psyche, then he'd be telling me what I knew but didn't want to believe. And if he's one of the dead, he'd know for certain.

He'd know. Damn him, but either way, he'd know. He always knew.

“Exactly,” said Kane, still smirking. He tapped a finger to his chin and continued on, “you know, I had a lovely little chat with her when she came in. It was surprising how much we had in common, honestly. You know what I think? Maybe you wanted her and didn't go for her because you'd never gotten over me - ever think about it that way?”

“Stop.”

It doesn't sound like me. It sounded haunted, exhausted, heartbroken...and faint, so faint. I found my hands pressed to my ears, clamped tightly - enough to smother my voice but not drown out his. I forced myself to let go, pulled my hands down to my sides, consciously fighting off the tremors, before I let myself speak again.

“Get out of my head.” I whispered. “Get out. I d-don't want you here - not any- anymore.”

He chuckled. “Come on, Albert. Didn't you tell me that no-one gets what they want?”

“Funny how you always did,” I spat. It doesn’t have as much venom as I’d wanted it to...but it doesn’t fall flat either.

“Maybe I had a lot of things go my way,” he mused calmly, not refuting my statement, “but unlike you, I didn't want to die. I didn't want that to happen.”

He sighed and looked away, still smiling a little. “Judgement's waiting for you, Albert,” and his smile turned cruel, as if the idea appealed to him. “And it won't be pleasant.”

I don't answer him. Whether it's stubbornness or exhaustion or the chill that runs down my spine or just the fact that I don’t fucking know what he wants me to say, I couldn’t tell you. But I don’t answer him.

It should feel like a victory. But it doesn’t.

“I'll know when it rolls around, you know,” he said, his eyes glinting as the shadows swept over him. “When judgement comes calling. I’ll see you then.”

“I loved you, you know,” I called out. I don't know why I did that, what I was seeking - forgiveness, understanding, acknowledgement? All of the above?

But none of those were forthcoming. He snorted, shook his head, and he locked eyes with me, even as his form faded from existence. “Maybe you should have thought about that before you killed me,” he said, and then he was gone.

\------------

When my eyes open, I’m in a familiar place - the last place I'd wanted to be.

The basement is a monochrome grey - and it’s not a good shade of grey. This is the dark grey of overcast days when the rain pours down, the dark grey of shadowed alleyways and their old worn stones, the dark grey that’s dripped into our souls, turning them blacker and blacker by the day.

The space is as threadbare as I’d remembered, and the gloom makes it hard to see, but I don’t doubt that the basement is as bleak as it was in life. And it’s cold too - whether this is a memory or a nightmare, that one detail slices through the fog and the shadow to cut me to the bone. Despite my heavy coat (still here, even in this dream), I shiver a little.

I’d been here once. Once - which shouldn’t be enough for my memory to conjure it up this accurately. But it does. The only difference is the hazy, surreal quality that this vision has - and the splotches of red on the walls, which almost shine in the dreamlight.

Absurdly, I wonder why the Dice had never gotten around to washing them out, before I realise that there’d be no point in that. Some things just don’t wash out - no matter how much soap, how much money, how many good deeds you throw at them, there they stay. Maybe they’re not meant to be forgotten - maybe this sort of memory stays with me for a reason. It’s a reminder of the time I fell, a reminder of why I’ll never be able to rise again. A reminder of what I’ve done, and why I’ll never be able to move past it.

What happened here mattered that much.

Sudden pain flooded my face, and I raised my hand to my cheek on instinct - but there’s no injury there. A shape materialised from the gloom before me - a boy, about sixteen years old, crashed into the ground. Sudden stings filled my back and my tailbone, and I bit my tongue to keep from wincing.

And Kane stalked out of the fog, his right hand raised, a look of violent fury on his face. He grabbed the boy’s collar - something tugged at my neck, chafing angrily - and slammed a fist into him. 

My cheek erupted with fresh pain, but I try to ignore it, focus on the scene before me. Now that I’m looking backwards, not lost in the moment anymore, I see how the older boy wasn’t even breathing heavily, how his fist pulled back just a little too fast after each connection - the telltale trademarks of an enhanced. Not a very powerful one, but he’d had some magic nonetheless.

If that day had gone better for him, he might have found a place in the Dice - he wouldn't have risen as high as I'd risen, but he'd have a place nonetheless. He could have slept somewhat safe, without worrying about the damp or the rats again, without worrying about how to provide for the others. He'd have found his place - if I hadn't taken it away from him.

The beating continued - I felt every impact, did my best to shrug them off. It was all I could do. I was just a spectator to my own past, watching silently, dealing with the knowledge that it only gets worse from here.

It's better than being me as I was then, though. Quiet regret beats burning pain and nausea, and asking myself what did I do wrong? over and over again. It's a small mercy, but it's a mercy nonetheless.

Eventually, Kane stopped with the punches, let my shadow slumped against the wall - and then snapped an uppercut into my jaw. The pain came dully - it was the shock that cut through the time between and brought me back to the moment. Shadows are swirling around the two phantoms - shadows in which I can still see the thugs’ faces, hard, merciless. They'd been there to make sure we didn’t try anything, to make sure we followed through on the threat - but now, looking back, maybe they were just there to indulge their petty sadism.

The thought comes back to me that this might have been one of his ruses - done for the benefit of the thugs of course. He hadn’t turned on me - it was just one more of his plans, one more time where I had to bite the bullet so we could both walk away. It had only been an accident that it had gone so wrong.

I knew what would - what will happen next - and I looked away. I knew where on my back the metal pipe would strike, how cold the water would feel as it raced down my back, its sting almost electric. I knew the sudden surge of power it would bring, and I knew what that surge of power did to me. 

And I don’t want to feel that way again.

The door's there. I just have to walk out, and I'll find myself a different torturous dream to endure-

A bolt of pain flashed down my spine, and the door was gone.

I felt the water's icy touch graze my skin - and suddenly I'm there, in a room that's darker than before, choking out my own blood. The barrier of memory no longer insulates me from the pain, and now it's all the more vivid, all the more intense.

I struggle to bite back a silent scream - and then, without thinking about it, I rise to one knee. I try to flex my fingers, and I feel my hand curl into a fist in response. I try to release the fist, and nothing happens. It's a surreal experience, trying to move and feeling your body actively disobey you like this.

So this ride is a one-way trip - I'm here, reliving the experience as it happened and powerless to stop it. I’m literally a passenger, forced to go through this all over again - but I’m not even that, honestly. I'm me as I was then - same fear, same anger, same sudden rush of power with no clue about how to handle it. The two parts of me, my past and my present, blend and lose their coherence in the moment, and it's the raw emotion, the biting pain, the sudden dark magic of the moment that define who I am now. The sudden sensations drown out all my foreknowledge and all of my regret, until all I know is here and now and the sudden desire to throttle Kane with his own windpipe.

And there's nothing I can do but ride it out.

I feel the water's call - that strange tugging in my mind and my gut, as novel now as it was then. I feel the sting in my knuckles as my next punch - supercharged by the current, the sudden magic - makes contact, feel the rush of triumph as it hits. I can feel the waters rising behind me, in response to the impulses I don’t yet know how to direct.

Kane should have finished me off then. But he was always too curious for his own good - he steps around me, trying to get to the rising cloud of water, and I slam it into his stomach like a punch. He crumples backwards, and I watch myself go on the offensive. I watch the water form into a crude barrier between us, watch the barrier grow appendages, watch the appendages slam blows into him, each one heavier than the next.

I clung to the micro-directions within those commands, the simple hydrokinesis and handling of power, trying to let the quiet repetitive calm consume my thoughts. I focus on the actions, not their results, reminding myself that this was a long time ago, it’s done, and there’s no point blindly suffering through it again.

And it works - all thoughts of the future clear from my mind. The distance between then and now has been re-established, and my soul is quiet, still, like a lake's surface at midnight.

Another blow lands, a tendril of water snapping like a whip and landing with just as much force. Kane slumps backwards against the far wall. He’s beaten. He’s down. And I feel nothing for it.

But it isn’t over yet. The water rises, dragging him back to his feet. I don’t remember what I was going to do with him - maybe just hit him a few more times, yell at him, call him on his betrayal. I’d been too angry, too hurt, to think rationally about it, but I don’t think I would have gone any further than that. Afterwards, when we were safe at the shelter, he’d probably have apologised for crossing that line, claimed it was method acting...and I’d have forgiven him, like I always did whenever something like this went down. 

If only I’d been so lucky.

“Put him down,” comes a familiar voice, strong and sibilant. When I hear it, I feel the distance begin to waver, begin to feel myself drifting back.

I put him down. Now, it was because I had a choice in the matter, and I was done with Kane - as much as I could be, anyways. Then? It was because I didn’t know any better.

When I turn around, there's a tall man standing there - in the midst of the ring, from which the thugs had pulled back. He was better dressed than the thugs - wearing a long, felt coat over a sweater vest, and he tucked a pair of glasses into his inside pocket with one hand, all while keeping his eyes on me. His eyes held no fear, no excitement - just calm detachment, as he observed me like a particularly promising lab specimen.

He smiles. It was a small thing, and it still feels so significant. “Well. A little nightclaw, aren't you?”

“M'not a nightclaw,” I respond. I wince slightly at the memory of my own voice, choked by blood and pain and raw betrayal. The blood was hard to talk to, and the pain... “Just want to live.”

“You just want to live, eh?” he asks.

I nod. Then, the obvious question - “Who are you?”

“Call me the Bookkeeper,” he responds. It should have sounded silly, but it wasn't - because something told me then that despite the scholarly look, calling himself a bookkeeper, that this was a legitimately dangerous man. This was a dangerous man that, unlike the thugs around him (who'd edged backwards towards the corners of the room, away from him), didn't need to broadcast that fact with his hands, his garments, his expressions. How could he, when a few quiet words were all he needed to make that perfectly clear?

“Let me tell you something, nightclaw,” he says, raising his hand. “Have you heard of the binary?”

“My name's Albert,” I mutter, and I regretted it, then and now. This was a dangerous man, not a man that you talked back to - and I'd done it for something as petty as stating my identity. Why would he care about that? I was nothing to him.

But he didn't seem bothered by my outburst. “Very well then, Albert,” he says. “Fine name, Albert; by the by. The binary is a simple condition - the world has two states, opposite halves. Hunters and prey. Those who live simply, surviving day to day...and those who dare for more.”

“It comes down to a simple question, in its essence. Do you settle for your fate, accept what life sends your way? Or do you rise above it?” He cocked his head at me, and it took me a second to realise he was waiting for me to answer.

“I...try,” I respond, slowly. And I realised that it was true - at least it had been back then. I'd endured the streets, surviving as best I could, but I'd never accepted that reality. I'd never stopped believing that things could be better - even here, alone in the dark, turned on by my closest friend, I still believed that we could have made it out, that everything would turn out alright.

“Yes,” the Bookkeeper says. “I can see that you know what hard choices mean - and you make them nonetheless.”

Something tells me that Kane's going to cough before he does. Had I just hit him harder, knocked him a little deeper into the black, then maybe he would have lived. But at that moment, he made the instinctive - and fatal - decision to remind the Bookkeeper that he was still alive.

“Was this man your friend?” asks the Bookkeeper, still light and conversational.

“He-” I stop, bite back the sob, try to work out what I'm supposed to say. “I knew him, yeah.”

“Good,” the Bookkeeper comments, seemingly absently, “Good. Well, you see, Albert, there is a bit of a dilemma your arrival has presented me with. You and your friend came here to steal from me, and though you did not succeed, it would look incongruous if I allowed you to walk free without punishment.”

“What I would require to satisfy those who work for me, and to assure my competitors that I have not ‘gone soft,’ as they would put it, would be your allegiance, as a guarantee of your loyalty to me. You would need to do what I asked, to prove your willingness to make up for the insult given me today, and your future dedication to our cause.”

“What do you want?” I hear myself ask. I regretted it to this day - it was such a stupid, stupid question. I'd known what he would ask - it was that obvious, even as tired and emotionally shell-shocked as I'd been. There was only one way he could avenge the insult to his honor, only one way he could bind me to him forever - only one way he could break me.

“If you wish to live, and be forgiven this offense, then this man, your partner...he must die. And you must be the one to do it.”

The distance is gone. Suddenly the pain and the fear and the sheer shock of the moment come rushing back - and I can't withdraw inside again.

“I don't wanna kill him,” I hear myself say. “He was my friend.”

“The bruises on your face tell me otherwise,” says the Bookkeeper, not unkindly. “So does the fear in your eyes. I saw how he hit you - he intended full well to kill you, if it meant he could walk free. Whatever you feel towards this man, I guarantee that he does not feel the same way.”

Kane had pulled himself up to his knees, and despite the fear in his eyes, he finds it in him to speak. “Albert, don't- don’t do this. You can't.”

“It's you or him,” the Bookkeeper says, serenely. “Choose, Albert. Would you rather find a purpose for your life, no longer have to worry about surviving day to day? Or drift to the bottom of Striaton Canal, forgotten and unmourned? Choose freely - but be prepared to face the consequences of your choice.”

It should have been an easy demand - from his perspective, at least. But for me...Kane had been my everything. Turning my back on him, killing him, that would be a step I couldn’t come back from. And he’d been my everything - even after he’d turned on me, his voice still screamed in my head, telling me that it was a mistake, a necessary evil, that I should know that he’d never do anything to hurt me…

But that didn’t matter, I realised as I stared into his eyes. He was dead either way - the Bookkeeper couldn’t let him live. This wasn’t about him - this was about me. This was about whether I had what it took to kill my friend, my only ally, the man I thought I loved, to save my own skin.

And as I stared him in the eyes, I didn’t think I had it.

“Choose, Albert,” whispered the Bookkeeper.

I don't know what I looked like, but clearly Kane didn't like it. Something in his jaw tightened, and he moved, lunging faster than I'd expected.

The water was faster. The barrier caught him, blocking his charge and bearing him to the ground. I dragged him backwards, back towards the pipe tightening the trap, and let the rest of the water sieve away - until a perfect, spherical prison encapsulated his head, cutting him off from the air he needed to survive.

He thrashed for a few minutes, before clear liquid cuffs snapped over his wrists and dragged him back towards the shattered pipe. He didn't stop thrashing, and his eyes snapped open, a sudden pleading look spreading across his face. I knew that look, knew it as well as I knew the backs of my own hands - and I know that however much he might have lied to me before, that this was genuine.

But I didn't let him go. I couldn't - it was him or me, and I'd chosen me, chosen to pay the price for living. In that moment, just living mattered more to me than my freedom, my soul, even someone else's life.

Sometimes I'd wished that I'd never been given my magic, that I'd just died there, alone in the dark, beaten to death by the one I loved. This was one of those times. Now that I'm facing the alternative, a short, violent death feels like the kindest of mercies.

The seconds tick away, one after the other, each one feeling shorter than the previous one. I don't know how long it's been when I realise Kane's stopped struggling. I don't know when the bubbles stop drifting from his mouth. I only know the quiet shock I feel when I realise that he's dead, he's dead and I've done this, and the sudden horror breaks my power, releasing the chokehold. Water struck the ground in a series of light pitter-patters, followed by the thud of bone meeting concrete. Blood leaks from his shattered skull, dripping into the puddle - and soon it’s just another streak of red marking the basement, another life taken by the darkness.

There's no triumph to the kill, no feeling of victory in my continued survival. Only something hollow in the pit of my stomach, something that's gone, something I hadn't realised was mine to lose. Except now I've gone and lost it, and I'm never getting it back.

I can hear the smile in the Bookkeeper’s voice when he speaks. “Good, Albert. Good, my nightclaw.”

I drag myself to my feet. The other thugs tense a little, hands drifting to their belts and pockets, but the Bookkeeper raises one hand invitingly. It takes me a second to fight past the numb feeling, to reach out and take it. Once we've shaken hands, I drop my hand, and slump - still standing, but only just.

“You did well, Albert,” says the Bookkeeper. “This man betrayed you, and he tried to kill you. In killing him, you showed the courage to make the hard choice - and it was for the better.”

It wasn't courage. It was survival instinct, pure and simple - but I stop myself from saying it out loud. I don't think I could have, anyways - I'm dead on my feet, and I want nothing more than for this to be over, one way or another.

“You've proven yourself worthy,” and he reaches into one of his pockets, drawing something forth it, “of joining the Dice. The power and the conviction you showed here demonstrate your willingness to do what needs to be done.”

He raises the object to the light, and my stomach twists a little at the sight of it. It was a long, silver chain, a pair of bronze-cast dice hanging from one end. A chain - decorative, emblematic, but a chain nonetheless. And there was no escaping it now.

When the Bookkeeper spoke again, it was with an imperious tone and more fervour than I believed a man like him could know. “Do you swear yourself to a higher purpose, bind yourself with the fate of our collective? Do you choose to take the hard paths, the dark roads, make the hard choices, so that you and yours may prosper? Do you swear that you will pay any price, even in your own blood, to ensure that our success is achieved?”

It wasn't my blood that had bought my entrance, I thought despondently to myself, not my blood that I'd signed with. But it seemed to be enough for them - killers were clearly worth more than the dead.

“Do you swear your utmost obedience,” finishes the Bookkeeper, “your full commitment, your loyalty to the Dice, until you are released or until Death comes to claim you?”

I know what comes next. I'd chosen my path a while ago - now all that's left is accepting it, and walking it out.

“Do you so swear, my nightclaw?”

“I so swear,” I respond, my voice hollow but intelligible.

That's it. I'm in for life.

“Welcome to the Crooked Dice,” says the Bookkeeper proudly. Behind him, his thugs relax, falling further back into the shadows, until they’ve practically faded out of existence. It’s just me and my new master now - The Bookkeeper walks over to me, carefully guiding the chain over my head, until it rests around my neck.

Light spills from his hands as he surveys me, a certain pride on his face. Then he raises one hand to me, and the world turns white-

And a breath catches in my throat, as my eyes snap open.


	12. Chapter 12

_There was only one light in the dark library, and it flickered dimly, casting weird shadows across the wall.  The small flame burned low, low enough that he supposed it would burn out soon as he glanced at it. He made a note to relight it when he returned to his seat.  
  
He turned back to the wall, picking a scroll off of one of the shelves, and unrolling its top edge to meet the light.   After a few seconds of scanning, he snorted, curling it back up and forcing it back into its nook. He picked another one, looked at its title, and then tossed it back with a sneer.  
  
The third scroll he opened met enough of his standards.  “Cobalion: Sword of Iron,” it read, naming one of the three musketeers of legend. He grunted, unrolling it all the way as he retreated to his desk, and reading away.  This at least was something - though it read more as description of myth than analysis, it did list the powers historically attributed to Cobalion by a variety of sources.  Perhaps there might be some common trend there that he could note.  
  
“‘Could actively reshape cast metal,’” muttered the reader.  “That would be a talent indeed...but I'd like to know how Cobalion did that.”  
  
The candle at his desk guttered and died as he said those words.  He sighed, then snapped his fingers. Blue energy coalesced into a small flickering flame, and he tapped that to the wick, reigniting it.  Then he turned back to his scroll, a little wearily.  
  
He didn’t find an answer to his questions - though Cobalion’s powers could be documented, the secret behind them was not listed on the aged parchment.  He made a slight sound of irritation as he reached the bottom, then he rolled up the scroll and stuffed it back into its casing. However descriptive it had been, it had been too fanciful for his purposes and offered no hints to his goal.  
  
Magic.  Though it was believed that it had disappeared from the world, there were still shreds of that great power, flickering in the north.  The Draconids, his people had gained the name, for their heritage, for the remnant of the dragon’s energy that some of them still possessed.  But what good was that remnant, when all it was good for was lighting candles and amusing children?  
  
Magic had been a great force once, and he knew that it could be a great force again.  Just as he knew that somewhere on this earth, there was the answer he sought - the key to bring the magic back.  
  
It took him a few seconds of scanning the stacks to select his next item - a history of the final days of the ancient conflict between the Dragon Princes, a document that many believed destroyed in Unova’s ancient cataclysms.  He'd read it before, but perhaps there was something in those lines that he'd missed in his younger days, something that would illuminate his path forward.  
  
He drew forth the parchment, handling it gingerly as he stepped away from the towering bookcase and back towards his desk.  Only there did he unroll it fully, casting his eyes upon the opening lines.  
  
And his search began anew._  
  
\------------  
  
The rain beat down, oppressive and relentless.  Drops struck the ground and splattered everywhere, merging together and racing across the street in long twisted strands.  Soon enough, the spot where he stood had become an island, a patch of high ground that escaped the worst of the flood. Not that it helped much - there was no protection from the omnipresent droplets, as they fell everywhere they could reach.  
  
Still he waited there.  Too much was on the line.  If cold and discomfort, idle worries and  _what ifs_  were all that would plague him, then he could endure it for as long as was necessary.  
  
The streetlight above him glowed, casting flickers of light all around him.  They were too bright, too conspicuous, too much of a contrast to the gloomy scene around him.  He didn’t need the illumination at the moment, either - he was there, alone, and his messenger had orders to seek him out.  Better that it be out of the way.  
  
Wisps of darkness crept from his hand and crawled up the metal pole.  They reached the lightbulb, wrapping around it like a shroud, close-fitting, almost smothering.  When they withdrew, the light had been extinguished.  
  
He closed his hand and shook it slightly, droplets flying askew.  A small expression of power, of control, of mastery.  
  
But still the rain beat down on him.  
  
Something came back to him as he contemplated the dreary scene - something Rood had once said, one of those whimsical turns of phrase that the old man was so fond of.  He'd said that the ancients had believed that rain was the heaven's tears, and that it was an expression of divine sorrow for the tragedies of the earth.  At the time he'd dismissed the statement as a product of the old man's sentimental streak, but here and now, the thought felt strangely fitting. This was the cusp of a momentous occasion, after all.  But tears could mean many things, and he found himself wondering, what emotion were the skies’ tears expressing? Was it sorrow? Fear? Pride and approval?  
  
He didn't know.  But he would know soon enough.  
  
Something flickered in the corner of his eyes, and when he turned to face it, he picked out the errant detail.  There, across the street, in the shadow of the building, was a spot of pitch black, its darkness standing out amidst the monsoon gloom.  
  
He was here.  
  
“You came,” he said, quietly.  “Did you succeed in your mission?”  
  
The shape stepped forwards, coming into focus.  “I did,” said the nightclaw, his purr a little less pronounced than usual.  “I brought the script, as you'd requested. Its text matched the description that you gave me.”  Despite his supposed success, the creature stayed where he was, as if keeping the road between the two of them.  
  
“Good,” he responded, heartened by the news, “good.  And those who seek the Velos?”  
  
The nightclaw took a little longer to respond this time.  “They escaped, master. I attempted to accost them, but they gained a momentary advantage, and I felt it would be unwise to risk the document that you- we wished to obtain.”  
  
The nightclaw paused, then continued in a somewhat more hopeful vein, “From what I have heard, they engaged our agents while trying to escape, and it went poorly for them.  One of them is dead and the rest have scattered to the winds. I do not believe they will be a threat to contend with in the future.”  
  
He was wrong about that last bit.  It was a shame that news of the Velos had slipped out too soon, drawing attention and becoming a beacon that could threaten his deeper operations.  He'd been fortunate that news of the leak and those who'd received the information had reached him so soon - although that was the result of his foresight more than anything else.  
  
But so be it - he'd attained his prize from the affair.  The script was the key to everything else, the key to his endgame.  Against the power that it promised him, all he'd accumulated paled in value.  This was the cusp of his triumph. This was the cusp of his redemption.  
  
“Very well, then,” he said, his voice measured, giving no hint to his inner exultation.  “You recovered the script, and that is the important thing. Bring it to me.”  
  
The nightclaw stayed where it was.  
  
“Give me the script, boy,” said the man, a warning edge creeping into his voice on the last word.  
  
The nightclaw shook his head.  When he spoke, his voice sounded tired, a little tinny.  “I don’t take things that I don’t understand, and I didn’t understand the script until I’d read it for myself.  But now I have, I see what you intend.”  
  
“What I intend is not your concern, boy.”  His anger was rising - since when did his agents have the temerity to question his designs?  “You were tasked with bringing me that artifact - you claimed it, now deliver it!”  
  
The fox rose from its crouch, drawing itself up to look its master in the eye.  Its muscles were tense, its fur raised slightly, clearly signalling the disobedience it intended.  A plume of black anger rose in his heart at the realisation...and he silenced it. He had come here for one thing, one thing alone, and claiming it took first priority.  Discipline could wait until later.  
  
All throughout their conversation, wisps of shadow had been pooling across the street, thickening, gaining potency, and anchoring themselves wherever they could find purchase.  Now, at a gesture, they swept upwards, wrapping themselves around the fox’s limbs, forming themselves into chains stronger than steel.  
  
“Give.  Me. The.  Script.” Each word was punctuated by a minute tightening of the shadow bonds, enough to drive the message home.  
  
The fox snarled.  Its fur began to glow with a deep purple, and then it slashed out wide with its claws, tearing free from the unbreakable shadows. Released, the creature dropped back into a crouch, looking up at him with murder in its eyes.  
  
“No,” said the creature.  “I don’t think I will.”  
  
A beat passed.  
  
Then another.  
  
Then the darkness sizzled and exploded.  
  
Blackness swept across the street, an absolute, midnight shadow, denser than concrete, and it left nothing in its wake.  Raindrops that landed on it sizzled, blackened, and were consumed, the little remaining light flickered and faded to nothing, and matter simply disintegrated as the dark fed on it.  An errant tendril caught the light stand, and a few seconds later, the top half - candle, wrought iron and all - tumbled to land on the street. Its crash was dim, muffled, as if the blackness around it had swallowed the sound as well.  
  
When the shadows cleared, there were only a few reddish scraps of iron left where the lamp had fallen.  And the fox was nowhere to be seen.  
  
His eyes narrowed, and another wave of darkness issued forth - tighter, more focused, almost targeted.  More of the raindrops sizzled and boiled, and within the night, something screamed.  
  
A dark shape burst forth from the gloom.  
  
The nightclaw barely missed him - he'd guessed at the lunge, and his desperate dodge pulled him clear of the slashing claws.  He rose, spinning around, and more shadow spooled before him, a barrier to keep the creature back.  
  
The nightclaw paused, slowed down, and he got a better look at it.  The creature hadn't seemed to be in good shape when they'd met, and the blasts of darkness had done their damage as well.  Its fur was ragged, and some of it had been torn away entirely. Cloying grey blood dripped from spots along its neck and upper torso, their stench thankfully swallowed by the rain.  
  
“Give me the script,” he said, slowly, “and I will forgive this insubordination.”  
  
The nightclaw snarled, and stepped  _into_  the barrier.  He fired off another blast of shadow, but the nightclaw persevered, driving through it with willpower alone.  
  
There were only two talons on the claw that swept through the barrier.  Only two which had survived - the other three had disintegrated, but the nightclaw seemed impervious to the pain, shrugging it off like the raindrops.  The lost talons would grow back, he knew, as would the fur and the flesh - and two claws was still enough to gut him like a fish. It wasn’t like he could summon up another blast like that.  
  
But that didn’t mean he was defenseless.  
  
The dagger swept from its hidden sheath, parried the slash, and another talon fell from the nightclaw, dissipating into dust before it hit the ground.  The rain mixed with the creature's dark grey blood, diluting it, burning against its skin. More of its black fur dissolved, swept away by the downpour, until it seemed less and less like a living thing at all.  
  
It wouldn't be able to hold on for longer.  And it knew that.  
  
He recognised the move, and he struck before it could leap from its crouch.  A bolt of darkness caught it head-on, sent it staggering long enough for him to close the distance between them.  
  
He caught it by the throat.  Then he slammed the dagger into its chest.  
  
The blow met less resistance than he'd expected - the fox must have taken an injury there, and not had the time to heal it off.  It was a lucky strike, then, but that didn’t matter. He’d won.  
  
The nightclaw slumped to the ground, eyes still burning.  And he descended on it.  
  
“This is my goal,” he snarled, his hands finding the pouch hidden around the small of its back, ripping it away from the fallen creature.  “I have spent years searching for this. This is my birthright - mine.”  
  
“Then take it,” spat the nightclaw, its voice burning with anger.  Its eyes burned too, like two eclipsed suns. “Take it like you take everything else.”  
  
“I will,” said the man.  And heedless of the rain, he drew the manuscript forth from the pouch.  
  
The second he touched the manuscript, he felt it.  It was the too-crisp texture, the stiffness that was too rigid and fresh for an object that would have been mouldering in an archive for years on end.  It was the too-crisp texture of a rushed job, an improperly-formed construct. Another one of his son's parlor tricks.  
  
When it began to dissolve, falling to the ground in dark grey wisps that disappeared in the storm, he wasn't even surprised.  Just disappointed - he should have seen this coming.  
  
Years of work.  Years of research, years of planning, years of building his empire, enough to claim this one artifact.  And a split-second rash decision, made in momentary wrath, had cost him all of that.  
  
“You are not...worthy, father,” said the fox, its voice filled with disgust.  He looked over, in time to see the fox disintegrate, in the same way its false document had.  The rushing waters washed the dust away, until nothing remained of the nightclaw, no sign that it was ever there.  
  
Just like he'd always done it.  
  
Ghetsis didn’t bother to look up - Nathaniel would be nowhere in sight, and the second the fight had begun to go against his construct, he would have fled.  And he had none of his agents around to support him - in his need for secrecy, he’d forsaken their assistance.  
  
Another mistake, to cap off a day chock-full of them.  And now his son would be in the wind, as would the script.  Even with all the resources of Plasma, all the power the Velos afforded him...it wouldn't be enough to find him.  He knew how to stay hidden, and Ghetsis had no agents that could hope to overpower the nightfox in combat.  
  
Some part of him refused to believe this turn of events - was this a game, one of Nathaniel’s jokes pushed too far?  It had to be - if he knew, truly knew, what the script could do, he wouldn't have left. He would have stayed.  
  
But that didn’t matter now.  The script was lost to him.  
  
 _No._  
  
The script still existed.  And what had been documented there might exist elsewhere.  Maybe, in some dusty tomb, some forgotten museum, the answer might await him.  
  
If he redoubled the search, found the secret of the script, he could make this right.  With the power it contained, he would be a god - and there was nothing beyond the powers of a god.  
  
Thunder rumbled far in the distance.  All around him, the rain continued to pour down, and the wind howled as it swept in circles.  But he stood at the eye of the storm, and undaunted he looked up into the gloom.  
  
“When that day comes, even the weather will not be beyond me,” he laughed, and the storm roared in response.  In anger, in approval, it didn’t matter. Soon his aims would be met - whatever forces would be thrown against him, they could not gainsay him this.  And if they would try, well… _let justice be done, though the heavens may fall._

[


	13. Chapter 13

My eyes snapped open.

 

The sky above me was a pleasant forest-green, and- I blinked. It wasn't the sky, it was a ceiling, painted in a simple, matte shade of green paint. As I looked closer, I could see the flaws, the telltale streaks of a brush and the fading towards the edges.

 

I was lying in a bed, staring up at the ceiling. It was a simple, bare room that I lay in - the walls were uniformly white, a table sat against a small window, and that was all that could be said. Raindrops drummed against the window, almost too dull to be heard, and they came even fainter to my other sense. When I tried to call out to the pooling water, the reply came as a dagger behind my eyes, a sudden stab which drove me back into the mattress. I winced and shook my head, clearing the spots from my vision.

 

My magic hadn't come back to me yet, then. I sighed, tried to sit up, and something caught me midway, dragging at my arms and leveraging the force to pin my torso to the bed. I raised my right hand as far upwards as I could, far enough to see the solid metal cuff encircling my right wrist, and the chain that hung downwards, connecting it to the bed's metal frame. Looking over to the side confirmed that my left hand was similarly bound.

 

What had happened? A flood of images raced through my mind-

 

_Jes fell silently to the ground, blood suffusing her clothes-_

 

_Waves swept across the street as the tide rose, sweeping aside the standing triggermen-_

 

_The fire roared higher and higher, trapping me in a ring, drowning me in smoke, heat and exhaustion. Then came the pain, the pain the pain-_

 

I shook my head, trying to dispel the memories and the sudden rush of knowledge they’d brought. I’d fought the triggermen, survived the fire...but what had happened after that? Where were the others? And where was I - who had taken me? It couldn't have been the triggermen...but no, it had to have been them. There was nobody else around, nobody with motive to kidnap rather than kill. Maybe their leader hadn't been bluffing about his offer - and this was the perfect position for them to make it.

 

I’d taken one such offer in my life. I wasn’t taking another. But I wasn’t ready to die for that defiance yet - not if I could still potentially sneak out of here. There didn’t seem to be any use trying to unlock the cuffs, and I was still too weak to channel the rain, but maybe if I had a few more minutes-

 

Something creaked, and I turned my head to the right, just in time to see the door open.

 

Two figures stepped inside - a man and a woman, both a few years older than me, looking as dissimilar as night and day. The one at the rear was medium-height, with a light complexion and long, curly blond hair. A pair of glasses were perched on her nose, the slight reflection dulling her green eyes a little, giving them a hooded look. She didn’t seem entirely at ease here, either - there was open wariness on her face, and she held her hands a little too far from her sides to be relaxed. Her partner, on the other hand, was relaxed and composed. He was half Tohjonese from his looks - like Kenta - standing half a foot taller than the woman, his eyes cold and predatory. His jacket was neatly pressed, and it bore the badge of the League on its lapels.

 

It took me a second to add up the facts - it wasn’t the triggermen that had me, but whoever did had connections with the League, and the League was willing to send two of its Agents to claim me. For a second, I felt an irrational flash of pride...and when that second passed, I realised how much harder my task had gotten. I knew the League's agents only by reputation, but from that reputation, overpowering or eluding them would be easier said than done.

 

The lead figure smiled slightly - clearly, he attributed my depression to his presence alone. If he did, he wasn't entirely wrong. “Greetings. I am Detective Cheren Hartford. This is my associate, Agent Bianca Farrow.”

 

“Hi,” added the woman, her voice firm but lacking Hartford’s assurance.

 

“What do you want from me?” I asked. My voice was less hoarse than I'd expected it to be - maybe I'd seem a little more resolute because of that.

 

“We simply have a few questions,” the lead agent - Hartford - said. “If you choose to answer truthfully, then we may ask the local authorities to take a lighter hand with you, to reward your co-operation.”

 

“Co-operation?” I asked. “I'm not sure who you think I am, but I don't know anything.”

 

Hartford's lips thinned. “Perhaps,” he said, patronisingly, “you don't know anything. But perhaps you do. At the very least, the asking does you no harm.”

 

“Let’s start with what happened yesterday,” suggested Farrow.  _Yesterday?_  “Can you tell us anything about why those triggermen attacked Nacrene Museum?”

 

“I wouldn't know,” I responded, looking away. It was true - I didn't know, at least not for sure. The triggermen had struck Lenora's base far too forcefully to be a simple raid, and yet they'd gone after us looking to kill...like they'd done with Jes…

 

I forced myself to not think about that. They were asking about the triggermen's motives, and I had no clue what drove them to their fanatic onslaught. And if it was  _yesterday_ , if they'd had a full day to rummage the museum's remains and pursue their own investigation, they'd probably have a better idea than me of what the triggermen had come for.

 

Hartford looked like he could see a few of the thoughts swirling behind my eyes, but he didn't elect to push. “Very well,” then he reached into his pocket, drawing forth what looked like a sketchpad. He turned the pad towards me, letting me see the mark stencilled onto the front - what looked like a stylised ‘H’ composed by three draconic heads, each one snapping and biting at the air. “What does this symbol mean?” asked Hartford.

 

“I don't know,” I responded, sincerely. I had no idea what the symbol meant, what it was - I’d never seen it before. Why was he showing me this? Was this a ploy, or was he genuinely seeking to learn something?

 

Hartford pursed his lips thoughtfully. Then he tilted his head, as if he was consciously considering another angle. “What about the watercrafter?” he asked, finally.

 

“The watercrafter?” I asked, raising my head. The watercrafter...they had to be asking about me, but why?

 

“Yes,” said Hartford, his eyes suddenly boring into me. “The watercrafter, the one responsible for the worst of the carnage. The watercrafter who destroyed several underground mains and left two streets flooded, close to fifty people dead or wounded.”

 

That was me - he  _was_  talking about me. I tensed, reaching out with my power. I felt droplets on the waterpane shifting and gathering, a sphere beginning to form - but it wasn’t nearly powerful enough to break the glass, and even if I could do that I wasn’t sure I could outfight the League Agents from the bed.

 

I was trapped, confronted with my fate. And I couldn't fight my way out of this one.

 

“It's a curious matter,” continued Hartford, offhandedly. “I've seen my share of watercrafters, seen many of their parlor tricks, but I've never seen something like this. This must be a powerful mage indeed.”

 

“Powerful and volatile,” added Farrow, letting some of her worry into her voice. “If he's out there, who knows how many people he could hurt?”

 

“Precisely,” finished Hartford. “So long as this watercrafter remains at large, he is a threat to this city and all who live here - your friends and allies included. Anything we could know about him would help immeasurably.”

 

Realisation came slowly. When it did, I looked at him, then at Farrow, then back to him, not certain whether I should laugh or cry. They were asking about me, even though they didn't know it. To them, I was the danger, the menace that they wanted off the streets.

 

And their assessment of me wasn't even that far off.

 

“I- I didn't see him,” I responded, trying to spin some story out of the scattered threads of my memory. “I was posted south of the museum, away, and we didn’t move when we heard the- the-”

 

Iron clanged, cutting off my train of thought with a start. Sudden goosebumps prickled across my face and bare arms, as a chill swept through the room. To my left, Farrow leaned against the window - the now open window - and glanced at me. “No worries,” she said, as she stepped backwards, away from the drizzle. “Just wanted some, ah - some fresh air.”

 

“You were telling us about how you were posted  _south_  of the museum, correct?” asked Hartford witheringly.

 

I was about to answer - and then I recognised the trap. These two had surely checked as to where I was found, thereby sinking my cover story before it had set sail.

 

Or maybe not.

 

“I was stationed there at first,” I said, “but we started moving when we heard the wind pick up. We arrived, and…”

 

I fell silent, and the only sound was rain splattering on the floor. Both League agents were watching me - me, not the window. As I looked at the wall, trying to compose my neutral mask again, I reached out with another silent call.

 

A drop trickled off of the window sill and crept towards the bed. Another followed.

 

“It came too fast,” I said, slowly, trying to picture the scene again in my mind's eye. “As soon as we got there, the wave came from the side, from the cracks, and we all just got...swamped.” I remembered the triggermen falling, swept away by the waves...and how I'd passed their still forms, careless whether they’d lived or died. The iciness of the memory seemed to surface, chilling my blood, making me shiver.

 

“So you didn't see him?” asked Hartford. “If you were-”

 

“No,” I muttered, just loudly enough to be heard. “He- I was down, in the water, head ringing, and as I saw him passing I just...played dead. Lay there, watching out of the corner of my eye, hoping he wouldn't look down and notice me.”

 

“What do you remember?” asked Hartford, leaning closer, a glint in his eyes.

 

“I- I only saw him from the left,” I said, trying to assemble a plausible profile. “He was short, a few inches shorter than me, built like a barrel. His hair was cut close - almost like a military style, and there was this nasty scar under his left ear.” The last detail sounded distinctive enough, and I hoped that it would send the League chasing in the wrong direction.

 

“Is that all?” asked Hartford.

 

“That’s all,” I responded, slowly, looking away. Didn't make eye contact with either of them - couldn’t make eye contact, couldn't see myself reflected there.

 

_Breathe._

 

Hartford stepped close to the bed, leaned over me. “I sense there's something you're not telling me,” he stated. He didn’t sound disappointed, or uncertain - he said it like he knew for a fact I was leaving something out.

 

“I’ve told you all I know,” I said, still refusing to make eye contact, hoping I didn’t come off as too rattled.

 

A pause, and then a, “Very well.” Hartford turned and departed without another word, leaving the door open behind him.

 

Farrow stepped back in, still wary. She offered me a tight smile. “Don't mind Cheren,” she said. “He means well.”

 

I didn’t respond. I kept my eyes on the table, and quietly kept the droplets moving towards me. They were coming faster now, and more easily, as my power sparked back to life. I was nowhere near my full strength - but I had enough power to get myself free. That might be all I needed.

 

_Once Farrow leaves,_  I decided. I could slip the bonds, clean up, and then make a run for it - once I was clear of the hospital, I could disappear, find my way back to the others.  _But I'll be going back alone. And I'll have to tell them what happened to Jes._

 

Another pang - I turned my face to the window, hoping it didn't show.

 

“It's getting a little chilly in here,” Farrow said, jolting me from my thoughts as she stepped around the bed. “I’ll have to close the window now, if that's not a problem.”

 

“None at all,” I lied. Inside, I cursed - but there was nothing I could do about it.

 

Farrow smiled slightly. Then she looked at the window frame, and in a few seconds her smile had disappeared. I saw it when she realised that the water had dripped  _up_  the incline from the sill to underneath the bed, the moment that all the little discrepancies must have clicked together in her head, telling her what she was dealing with. A second before fire had flared in her hands and she opened her mouth to call for help-

 

Before my sphere caught her under the chin with a dull  _thud._  Her eyes rolled backwards in her head and she fell against the wall, sliding softly to the ground.

 

Tendrils of water snaked upwards and snapped the cuffs, casting their shards down to the floor. I rolled off of the bed, rubbing my wrists a little, and stepped away from the bed, bracing myself against the wall. The strain of moving the sphere that fast would have ordinarily been irritating, but right now it was threatening to knock me out. 

 

_Breathe. Focus on the situation._  Nobody was rushing into the room to help, and no alarms had been raised. That was something. Now to see about getting out of here before anyone walked in.

 

Farrow had left her coat bundled on the table, and I tossed it over my shoulders, folding the collar down to cover the League's insignia. At a glance, the long sleeves hid enough of my burns and the tears in my shirt, and I felt safe to venture out of the room into the empty hallway.

 

I'd gone only a few doors down before I heard Hartford's voice behind me, low and edged, and it was all I could do not to break into a run. Instead, I walked the rest of the way to the stairs, ducking through the door and out of the hallway. He’d sounded like he'd been talking to someone - so he couldn't know I'd escaped yet, and I'd shaken him for the moment.

 

But I couldn't have more than a minute or two before the pursuit began in earnest.

 

I took a second before stepping onto the staircase, ascending instead of descending. Getting out the ground floor without being noticed would be too difficult, but the roof would be easier to access - and once I was out in the open, with the rain pouring down, it would be much easier to overpower Hartford and any of his myrmidons. They wouldn't be expecting me to go up, either.

 

But the stairs didn't agree with my plan. It was only once I reached the top stair, pushed through the door, that I realised that the stairs didn't extend to the roof. I was still inside the hospital. I jammed my hands deeper into the pockets of my stolen coat, and turned my head downwards, pretending to glance at the tiles on the ground. Hopefully it would be enough to avoid any errant scrutiny.

 

I walked through a small atrium - almost empty, save a few attendants milling around, and two officers leaning against one of the desks. It took all my willpower to keep walking, to not glance at them twice, to keep the look of casual disinterest on my face.

 

“Don’t shoot to kill,” I heard one of the officers say, tapping a radio wire with a metal rod. A second later, I heard it thrumming, and he continued, “We want to take him alive if possible...and apparently the sheriff doesn’t want to risk this watercrafter rampaging again.”

 

“Did you see some of the others we brought in?” asked the other. “Don't know about you, but I wouldn’t want to be on this one’s wrong side.”

 

Head down. Eyes down. Breathing in and out, until I was past, until the open space had condensed to a narrow hallway.

 

Just me now. The dangerous watercrafter, all alone. The next atrium I walked into was all but empty, as were the rooms I glanced into, their doors open and their interiors messy. This wing of the hospital seemed unused to the point of neglect.

 

Briefly I considered finding a place to hide here, where I could avoid the sweeps, rest and regain my strength. I dismissed that thought before I could consider it further. I didn’t want to hide, to linger - I wanted to be gone, to be away from here, away from Nacrene. Away from the failure I’d suffered here, enough that distance could dull the loss again, and the sooner I left the better that would be.

 

_How big is this hospital?_  I asked myself, blearily, as I passed another atrium. There was only a single attendant here, - short, with yellow blond hair, wearing a nurse’s uniform blouse over trousers. Her eyes scanned a clipboard before her, seemingly engrossed.

 

She looked up as I approached her, and her eyes narrowed at me in sudden recognition.  _I’ve been made._  I tensed, stopped and took a step backwards, just as lightning arced across the space between us.

 

I was barely able to form my shield in time to take the hit. The electric burst crackled along the edges of the prismatic disc, before dispersing into static and sparks. The attendant didn't waste a second before firing another burst of lightning at me - a rushed attack, but still more than I was sure I could block in my weakened state. So I dodged the burst, glancing behind me as I did to check the corridor behind me. Nobody was coming - and despite the fight breaking out, she made no move to call for help.

 

I deflected a third bolt of electricity, and then let the shield split into three spheres, each one spinning in place. “Looks like my turn,” I said, with more venom than I felt, and the first sphere hovered towards her.

 

She stepped backwards, lightning crackling in her hands - and then ducked through the door on her left, leaving no target for me to aim at beyond the empty air. The sphere landed on the floor and shattered soundlessly into a thousand droplets, racing in long streaks to the end of the hallway.

 

I growled, and without moving to reform the lost sphere, I stepped towards the room she’d fled to. And stopped stone dead in the doorway.

 

The room was almost identical to the one that I’d been in - except for the occupant of the bed. Jes lay on top of the sheets, her eyes closed and her face pale. The attendant stood over her, the bed between the two of us, her hands crackling with lightning.

 

“Back,” she said quietly, “stay back or your girlfriend gets it.”

 

“She’s not my-” I said, almost on reflex, before realising how futile it would be to argue the point. I raised my hands, motioning the spheres behind me, as my mind raced.

 

Jes wasn’t dead. Jes wasn't dead. I’d seen her shot, seen her fall - but she’d had to have lived. Else she wouldn’t have been here - she would have been in her grave already. Or was this another scheme, another plot to wring information from me?

 

“Is she-” I started, hesitant, afraid to give voice to my fears.

 

“She’s- ah,” the attendant responded, catching herself. “I’m asking the questions, not you - not if you want her to stay alive by the end of this. She lost quite a bit of blood, and a little shock would be the last thing she needs.” Her hand wavered a little as she spoke, the sparks landing dangerously close to Jes.

 

It took all my self-control to stay still, to not jump to the attack. “What do you want,” I asked, voice dull.

 

“Lenora Hawes,” she responded, her eyes glittering. “You were at the Museum - you and the rest of yours, right before the shooting broke out. You know what happened to her and the rest - and you’ll have to know where they went. So where did they go?”

 

Another set of pieces fell into place in my mind. If she was one of Lenora’s people, then that explained why she wasn’t so keen on calling for help - not when she could handle things in-house.

 

“I don't know,” I responded. “I didn't see which way she went.”

 

“Liar,” she hissed, her hand crackling.

 

“I wasn't following them,” I responded, “and I didn't see where they went. I had other concerns going at the time.” I paused. “How did you know who I was?”

 

“Hef- one of the others told me,” she responded. “He was one of the ones who brought you in - before your friends set the place on fire.”

 

“That wasn't me and my friends,” I said. “That was the people who were gunning for us.”

 

“They were gunning for you?” she asked, her face disbelieving and her voice tinged with scorn. “Then what do you call the Excavators? What do you call the museum?”

 

“Collateral damage.” Her face darkened as I said that, enough that I realised my mistake. “Look…”

 

“Where is Lenora Hawes?” she hissed. I revised my assessment of the woman - as smart as she seemed, she wasn't in full control of the situation and she knew it. And she was desperate, from the way she kept asking. And she had Jes’ life in her hands - and I had nothing to offer for it.

 

“They wore an H,” I said. I'd guessed - guessed based on what Hartford had told me, and the way her face scrunched told me I was onto something. “An H, made up of three dragon heads. That's all I saw.” That was all I had. A guess.

 

The spheres drifted forward as she stepped backward, paling. “The Har- no, it can’t be, she would have-”

 

A thud came from the distance, and then echoes drifted towards us from the open corridor - barked orders and the thuds of booted feet.

 

“They're coming for me,” I whispered, half turning, letting the shield coalesce. I could take her - had to keep her away from Jes, but I could take her, and then-

 

“Go,” the attendant said. I turned back to face her - her left hand crackled with power as she stepped toward me. “Go!” she said, gesturing with her sparking hand.

 

“I-”

 

“If you really had nothing to do with what happened to the Excavators, then...I'll protect her. Now go, before I decide to let the League have you.”

 

The thuds came louder now, each one closer than the next. I looked back for a second, to where Jes lay, pale and broken, blanketed by shadows.

 

Then I ran.

 

There wasn't much more I could do. If I stayed, I'd have to fight the attendant, then fight off Hartford and his backup, and I wasn't in any shape for that. Running was the only option.

 

A sign for a staircase came up in front of me - I lunged, and pulled the door open. The only stairs I saw were downward, and there was no way for me to make it to the roof. No other way for me to go.

 

I hit the stairs with a sigh, hoping that there may be some way to slip out from the ground floor. If they were combing the upper levels, they maybe an exit would be undermanned, or entirely unattended. A path for me to slip out.

 

I'd come back, of course. Jes was here, and so I'd come back with the rest, once night had fallen, and spirit her away. It would all be fine. If Hartford got wise, if he tried to stop me, then  _he'll die he'll die like the rest that tried I won't let them hurt her again-_

 

Later. Think about that later, after I'm out. One step at a time.

 

Floors flew by as I kept descending, and when I looked up I saw the last door on the ground, one level below me. My fingers twitched as I passed the landing. It was so close…

 

The door I’d just passed swung open, and I turned around, in time to see a tall, dark-haired figure step in. A pair of dark-feathered wings protruded from his back, their shadows darkening the staircase, and he held a gun in his hand.

 

_Damn it._  Water spooled slowly from my wrists, shield forming, but the winged man flapped his wings once with a defiant cry. In the enclosed space, the sudden burst of air was amplified, a force that bypassed my defense and caught me like a punch to the midsection. I stumbled backwards down the stairs, barely keeping my balance.

 

_Damn it._  The winged figure was above me, freedom below. I kept my shield up, preparing to make a run for it...and then the door below me clanged open, two more figures stepping into the stairwell.

 

“Surrender,” the winged one called down, his wings beating lightly back and forth, as one of the figures below him reached to the left and pressed his hand to the wall. As his fingers made contact, I felt the structure shift, and heard the stones grind and groan under his power. I hadn’t gotten back to full strength yet - and I couldn’t hope to fight all three of them straight up.

 

_Damn it all._  I flicked my wrist, sending a series of droplets through the railing and down at the pair. I aimed low, and the earth mage hunkered down to avoid the volley-

 

Putting him right beneath me as I vaulted over the railing, dropping down and driving him the rest of the way to the ground. He let out a surprised  _whoosh_  as he went down, his head slamming hard against the concrete.

 

In an instant, I was up, and trickles of water swirled into another shield, dispelling a burst of psychic miasma from the figure in the doorway. The psychic backed off, but before I could get a bead on him, the winged one had dropped down.

 

I angled the shield upward, seeking to deflect his advance, but he bounced off of it and back into the air. His gusts snapped at me with stinging tendrils, forcing me backwards until I pressed up against something cold and hard. My back was against the wall - literally.

 

The figure cawed again as he drifted closer - and I fired another sphere of water at him, aimed at his throat.

 

It struck - not hard enough to kill, I couldn't hit that hard - and the winged one's next cry was strangled. His equilibrium shot, he drifted further down towards me, and I stepped in, snagging his wing with both hands. Before he could react, I pulled him close, keeping the shield between me and the psychic, and slammed my fist into the winged man's face. Sudden stings popped through my knuckles, pain twisted through my palm, but the winged man fell.

 

Two down. A volley of droplets slammed into the psychic’s chest, and the miasma gathering around him dissipated into mist. I kicked him in the shoulder as I passed, but he didn’t stir. All I'd done in checking was make my ankle twinge again.

 

It was the least of my injuries - my still fresh burns stung with pain, my legs ached from my rough landing, and my hands were scuffed from the short exchange. But worst of all were the silent shouts in my mind, the roars that drowned out my magic and forced me to rely on my fists. I wanted nothing more than to lie myself down in the staircase, collapse and drift away until the pain couldn't touch me.

 

But I pressed on. The door flew open, and I staggered out into the open air. The alleyway was open at one end, and a thin line of daylight trickled in from above. The rain fell all around me, mixing with the sweat on my face and beading in my hair, and despite the pain, the weariness, and the weights pressing down on my mind, I felt all the more alive.

 

_I’m out. I’m free,_  I thought, a touch delirious. Then I caught the scent of fresh dirt all around me.

 

It happened before I could react. In the corner of my eye, I saw a vine slice up the side of the wall and hook itself around my wrist. I tried to tug myself free, but stopped within a second as I got a closer look. A wickedly edged leaf poked its way out of the vine, and rested on my wrist, just above an artery. It would barely take a smidge of energy for that leaf to poke a few millimeters further, enough to paint the brick with my blood.

 

I'd been so close.

 

“The detail about the scar was a nice touch,” said Hartford from behind me, almost laconic. “I'd believed that you were covering for someone else...but not quite. You were covering for  _yourself._ ”

 

I said nothing.

 

“The only reason I didn't consider that you might have been the watercrafter was that, well...I hadn’t believed that whoever wreaked all this destruction could have been overcome,” he admitted. “But you were overcome there and you've been overcome now, though not without loss. I assume that my men did their best to slow you down.”

 

“Your men are alive,” I said, finally. “I left them in the stairwell.”

 

A pause, and then a, “How considerate of you.” A metallic  _click_  followed. “But even if it's true, don't expect any sort of leniency. Now that we both understand each other, I think that we’ll be having another conversation - one that's a little more frank than our last.”

 

I wasn't looking forward to that conversation at all. I weighed my chances - if I moved fast, I might be able to tear myself free of the vine before Hartford could move. But if I was wrong...it would be drawn out, it would hurt, but it wasn’t torture. All things considered, there were worse ways to go than what Hartford threatened.

 

It was my life against my freedom. All that I had was on the line - however little it was.

 

I thought a single, silent prayer - that things would work out for the others, for everyone, and that maybe they'd forgive me for failing them - and then I tensed, preparing to move. I'd have to wait for Hartford to get closer, and I'd have to move quickly enough-

 

All of a sudden, I smelled ozone, and a buzzing noise sounded from behind me, behind Hartford. I turned around to see the League Agent jerking forwards, stiffening like he'd been struck. White light flashed around him and then he collapsed.

 

I turned away, ripping at the vine with my fingers and pulling it free. A pair of shallow cuts scored my fingers, but I paid them no heed until I was free, and I could step away from the winding vine.

 

“You're welcome?” asked a familiar voice.

 

When I turned, the attendant was standing there, looking down on Hartford, hand still sparking. Behind her, Jes slumped back against a wall, her eyes closed, only the low rise and fall of her chest indicating life.

 

Jes was alive. She was fine. We both were.

 

“Don't ask how I managed to get her down the stairs,” the woman said. “She's still fine, by the way.”

 

I eyed her as I wrapped my bleeding hand in my free hand's sleeve. “I can help you with that,” she said. Before I could protest, she reached out, caught my hand, and pressed my fingers into her palm. I felt a sudden jolt, a pulse of energy - and when I released my hand, the cuts had been sealed shut.

 

“You're a healer,” I said, slightly confused.

 

“It's a side talent,” she said, somewhat sheepishly. “I use electricity - but I can stimulate healing with it if I use it right. Works for minor injuries mostly, cuts and bruises, not much more.”

 

“Thank you,” I said, meaning it. Then, “Why did you come?”

 

She waited a second before speaking. “You know that Lenora's not quite in the picture anymore...and with her gone, I need to be gone too. Urgently. And, you know, I was hoping you’d be willing to deal.” She gestured errantly with one hand, back to where Jes lay.

 

Something flared in my heart at that gesture. In an instant, a razor-edged spool of liquid had encircled her other wrist, trapping her like I’d been trapped. “And what if I'm not looking to deal?” I asked, coldly.

 

“I-” she started, seeming shaken by the sudden turn. “I'm hoping that you are. I mean...I just need transport. That's all.”

 

“Transport to where?” I asked.

 

“Nimbasa,” she responded, almost eager. “That's all I need. If you can get me there, then you can have your friend...and we'll probably never see each other again, so there's that too.”

 

Nimbasa. That lay past Castelia, meaning she'd have to accompany us that far, another risk in an excursion that was rapidly becoming full of them. And there was nothing I could get from her that I couldn't get by just killing her here and moving on. The Bookkeeper would have done that, rather than take the risk - or he would have simply passed up the offer outright, walked away into the rain without another word.

 

But I wasn't - I'm  _not_  the Bookkeeper. The attendant, whatever her motives, helped me, and she helped Jes too. Without her, I'd be dead or languishing in Hartford's custody, and now there's something owed between the two of us. And I owe it to myself to repay that debt.

 

In that moment, the choice was a simple one.

 

The spool dissolved into droplets, falling to the earth and racing away to the gutter. Only once the downpour had washed away its traces did I offer my right hand to shake. “Albert Thawne,” I said, and my name hung in the air like a guarantee, a promise.

 

She hesitated for a second before reaching out. Her long fingers wrapped around my hand, setting my skin to tingling. “Marie Coburn.”


End file.
